


I Saw This Morning Morning's Minion

by R00bs_Teacup



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Police, Crime Fighting, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-15
Updated: 2016-02-15
Packaged: 2018-05-20 16:00:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 25,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6015388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R00bs_Teacup/pseuds/R00bs_Teacup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Porthos is witness to a terrible crime, but is he just a witness? Can his neighbour, who hardly knows him, trust him?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> WARNINGS: PTSD and shock, past spousal abuse mentioned, murder, graphic blood, dismemberment, violence, drug abuse (not the focus, in the past). In the final chapter there's: a mention of past suicidal ideation, and mention off past child abuse

Treville examines the outline of what once was a man. Now it's more a collection of bloody pieces. He's seen worse, but not often. Aramis has his handkerchief pressed to his mouth, and d'Artagnan has already left in a hurry, probably throwing up in the grass outside. 

“I can tell very little from all this,” Aramis says, sighing and straightening from where he was crouched, crucifix wrapped around the hand holding the handkerchief. “Have CSI finish documenting it?”

“Yes,” Treville says. 

“Then we'll collect this poor soul up and take him home to the morgue,” Aramis says. 

The house is busy with footsteps, mostly the CSI team coming and going. There's also the sound of d'Artagnan talking shakily to the uniform on duty at the door, someone Treville can't name but has a familiar face. Aramis is talking to some of his team, preparing to get the body up. One of the CSI team is making a very dark joke about the blood. Treville frowns, and catches what he already knew. Something out of place. Something creaking the wrong way. 

“Someone's here,” he says, softly. 

The sounds of voices inside still, and Aramis turns to him, mouth open. Treville holds up his hand, and listens. There it is again. He follows the sound to the end of the room. It's a long living room, with one end dedicated to bookshelves. There are French Windows, and a bay window. The bay window has a little reading nook. And there, tucked between the end of a wide bookcase and the wall, behind a small table that holds a lamp, a coaster and a coffee mug, is a man. 

“Out,” Treville says. 

The man makes an animal sound of panic, scrunching into himself harder. 

“Show me your hands,” Treville says. 

The man manages to get one hand loose, holding it up as if in defence. There's blood, but none beneath the nails, none in the seams of skin. Not enough. Treville crouches. 

“Alright,” he says, gently as he can. “Stay there for now, if you like. Aramis, can you ask d'Artagnan to come in, please? Thank you. I'm Treville. I'm a police officer, as are the rest of the people in the house now. Do you live here?”

“Porthos.”

“Your name?” Treville asks. 

“Obviously his name,” d'Artagnan says, gently, much more gently and warmly than Treville can ever manage. “Hello, Porthos. I'm d'Artagnan. I'm Treville's friend. Are you able to come out, yet?”

“No.”

“Is it okay if I sit here and talk with you while we wait for you to be ready?” d'Artagnan asks. 

Porthos hesitates, then lets out a shaky 'yes'. Treville straightens, letting d'Artagnan do his thing. Aramis joins him, handkerchief still held to his face, skin pale. 

“How long do you think he's been there?” Aramis says. 

“No idea. I would guess, though, from his demeanour, that he witnessed that. Or walked in and discovered it, and knows the victim,” Treville says, indicating the body. 

“God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,” Aramis says, quelling anger and pity with his prayer. “Poor man.”

“Would you two shut up?” d'Artagnan says, still gentle and careful. “We're right here and can hear you.”

Treville focusses on him again, and realises Porthos has come out, the table shifted to make it easier. He's sat beside d'Artagnan, knees up, a hand covering his eyes. d'Artagnan has a hand on his arm and is comforting him. Treville nods. 

“Useful,” Aramis says, impressed, and Treville remembers Aramis hasn't seen d'Artagnan with victims much, unless they're dead. 

“He's very good,” Treville says. 

“I can still hear you,” d'Artagnan says.

To everyone's surprise Porthos lets out a hoarse laugh and looks up, letting his hand drop away. He looks embarrassed, to Treville. And shaken. Very shaken. 

“Would you like a cup of tea?” Treville offers, a little mindlessly. 

“Rather get out of here,” Porthos says. 

d'Artagnan gets up and unlocks the French windows, pushing them open. The fresh air brings relief to the stale room, and everyone breathes a little easier. d'Artagnan helps Porthos stand, but Porthos's knees buckle as soon as he's up. Treville ducks under one arm, and d'Artagnan takes the other side, and they steady him until he can gets his legs. 

“Sorry,” Porthos says. “Sh-shouldn't be this bad.”

“It's enough to send anyone out of their minds,” d'Artagnan says, still quiet. “I've thrown up several times, myself.”

“Don't mention that,” Porthos says, swallowing hard. 

They stagger around the side of the house and to the Saab. d'Artagnan's always a bit haphazard about parking, and they're at an angle on the curb. Treville opens the back door and lowers Porthos to sit, immediately going to the boot to get the juice boxes d'Artagnan's just bought for his romantic picnic. He gives Porthos a choice of pineapple and orange. 

“Why do you have these?” Porthos asks, taking the pineapple. 

“d'Artagnan has strange ideas about romance, and is off on a picnic tomorrow,” Treville says. 

“God,” Porthos says. “Tomorrow. I suppose it will come.”

“Tomorrow never comes,” d'Artagnan says, shading his eyes and looking at the house. “They're bringing him out, now. Try not to look.”

d'Artagnan and Treville look away, too, until the sound of the ME's van vanishes. Aramis comes and joins them, face grim. He glances at Porthos, then jerks his head, drawing Treville away. They meet away from the car, and Treville tilts his head to listen. 

“His spine was severed,” Aramis says, rubbing his face. “It was definitely what we'd classify as a biologically male body. Beyond that I can't tell much. The body hadn't been there long, though. The door and a window were open, it'd have drawn flies. Maybe other animals. I'd guess it happened today. The blood was fresh. It's warm, but still. I'd hazard that time of death was not more than a few hours, at most, and may have been less than an hour.”

“Thank you,” Treville says, squeezing Aramis's shoulder. It was rare for him to be affected this badly. “Are you alright?”

“Sick,” Aramis admits. “I don't think I'll be eating for a while. We found his foot under a sofa.”

“Thank you for sharing that,” Treville says, and Aramis's lips twitch, just a little bit. 

“I feel like I have... bits, in my moustache. I'm stopping off at home to shower and shave. I gave the people who helped scrape him up the afternoon off. Have you questioned Porthos yet?” 

“No. I'm letting d'Artagnan set the pace. We'll get further that way.”

“I'll see what I can do about identifying the victim. I'll try and have a preliminary report for you on everything before I leave tonight.”

“Thanks.”

They part ways again, Aramis to his car, Treville back to Porthos and d'Artagnan. d'Artagnan has a hand on Porthos's shoulder, holding him steady, and Porthos's breath is coming way too fast. d'Artagnan smiles at Treville, though. 

“He's having a bit of a panic attack. Nothing to worry about. You're alright, Porthos. That's it, that's better already, eh?”

Porthos's breathing evens slowly, and Treville stands waiting while d'Artagnan talks Porthos through it. Porthos, after a quarter of an hour, leans forwards and throws up over d'Artagnan's shoes. 

__

“I'm really sorry,” Porthos says, for the hundredth time. 

They've got him in one of the nicer interview rooms at the station, with a blanket around him and a hot mug of very sweet tea (Aramis's suggestion). d'Artagnan is in his stockinged feet, which is what is causing Porthos's guilt. Treville has a mug of coffee and a file of notes with him, and he ignores the endless apologies. d'Artagnan is trying to set up a recorder, and having difficulties, so his reassurances are a little lack-lustre. 

“I can't even afford to get 'em nicely cleaned. I can do it, though, myself like,” Porthos says. 

“Don't worry about it,” d'Artagnan says. “Ha! Got it. Okay, interview one with Porthos du Vallon. Present is Porthos du Vallon, DS d'Artagnan, and superintendent Treville.”

“Superintendent?” Porthos asks Treville, surprise finally breaking him out of his litany of apologies. 

“d'Artagnan was unexpectedly without a partner for the week, so I got roped in,” Treville says, diplomatically. 

d'Artagnan looks a little chagrined. Which he should, seeing as he's 'unexpectedly' partner-less after sleeping with his DI. Not that Treville begrudges Constance her happiness. He just begrudges d'Artagnan. 

“Right,” says d'Artagnan, a little flustered. Treville gives him a reassuring smile (he's not really mad about it, he was enjoying himself, until this case). “Would you like me to ask you questions, or would you like to just talk it through?”

Porthos just shakes his head, either not understanding or too overwhelmed. 

“For the record, Mr. du Vallon is shaking his head,” Treville murmurs. 

“Let's start with the easy questions, eh? Date of birth, address, that sort of thing,” d'Artagnan says. 

Porthos gives his details easily enough, automatically, and d'Artagnan asks him a couple of unnecessary but equally easy questions, until Porthos is answering more readily. 

“I'm going to ask you something difficult, now,” d'Artagnan says. “It's going to be a hard question, but we'll just get it out of the way. Did you see it happen?”

“For the record, please refer to paperwork if you need elucidation on this question,” Treville says quietly. 

Porthos doesn't answer. He just sits, and stares into his mug. 

“A yes or no will do,” d'Artagnan says. 

“Yes,” Porthos croaks. 

“Tell me where you like to spend time, in town,” d'Artagnan says. 

“The public library,” Porthos says, softly, wistfully. 

“For the books, or the comfy chairs? I've been there, I know about the chairs,” d'Artagnan says, raising a tiny smile from Porthos. 

“Both.”

Slowly, coaxingly, d'Artagnan draws the story out of Porthos, taking lots of breaks and calming him with a skill that impresses Treville further. Porthos was cat sitting for the house owners ('a work colleague set it up for me, a bit of extra cash, you know?') He'd gone out there on his lunch break, and he upstairs using the bathroom when someone came in ('he must have come in then, he can't have already been in the house! He'd have known I was there if he was already in the house!'). Porthos hadn't noticed them until he got downstairs, when he spotted them through the warped glass door between the living-room and the hall. 

Porthos had frozen, and another man had come in the French windows, and then the first man had, without a word, just gone for him. Porthos hadn't moved, hadn't dared to do anything until the man had gone. Then he'd gone into the living-room and seen it. He'd thought he heard a noise, and crammed himself in the first place he could find. 

__

“Aramis's report,” d'Artagnan says, dropping the file on Treville's desk and sitting with a heavy sigh.

“Du Vallon sorted out and sent off home?” Treville asks. 

“Yes,” d'Artagnan sighs again, looking unhappy. 

“What is it?”

“He had no one to call. He's just going home, to be entirely by himself. I told him to come back in tomorrow, half because I want him to have someone to check in with.”

“Good lad.”

“Sir?”

“Yes?”

“This one sucks, doesn't it?”

“It's bad. But the sheer amount of damage done is going to be helpful to us. It's unusual, and suggests several things. Passion, though the heat of the moment doesn't fit with what Porthos saw, the level of violence suggests the victim was known to the perpetrator. Strength, to accomplish this. If there's any level of skill, that'll tell us even more. Let's see what Aramis has to say.”

“He has a possible identification,” d'Artagnan says, perking up. “Dentistry, apparently. It's in there.”

d'Artagnan sits forward and they go over the report. Aramis's report backs up the idea of skill, strength and passion. d'Artagnan follows up on the dentistry and by the time they leave for the night, they have an identification: Jean Mauvoisin. 

__

Porthos looks up at his flat, as the police car pulls up to the curb. He climbs out, legs still a bit shaky, and thanks the constable in the front seat. The car doesn't pull away until Porthos is in the front, and he feels grateful about that. He doesn't feel safe. Especially outside. He looks at the stairs, takes a deep breath and heads up. He pauses as Athos's door. 

He doesn't know his neighbour well. He knows his name, and they had coffee once when Porthos set off the fire alarm and Athos came up to have a go at him. They exchange friendly words when they pass though. And Athos sometimes stops to actually have a conversation. They're sort of friends. Almost. It's the closest thing Porthos has at the moment, anyway. Porthos makes up his mind and knocks. 

It takes Athos a long time to answer. Porthos knows he's in, he can see a light. He almost gives up, though, too tired to stand around too long. He's cold as well, a kind of creeping chill that's settled right into his bones. Maybe he should just go home and steep in a bath, lie down, sleep. Porthos reaches the third thing on the list and realises that he doesn't want to sleep. Possibly ever again. The door swings open as he has this thought, and he jumps, heart speeding up.

“Oh,” Athos says. “It's you. What do you want? Not setting fire to the building again?”

“No,” Porthos says, managing a small smile. “Um, I just saw your light on, wondered if you wanted a coffee?”

The fire alarm incident was more than a year ago. Athos looks surprised, though not displeased. He opens his door a little further to reveal he's wearing a pair of jogging bottoms and not much else. Porthos's eyes rove over his bear chest. Athos clears his throat and Porthos slowly comes back to himself tearing his eyes away. He flushes. 

“As you can see, I'm already tucked in for the night,” Athos says. 

Porthos nods, which makes his head hurt. He realises he's still trembling, just a bit, and he's definitely cold, now. Freezing. He nods again and turns away, starting up the stairs. He's too spaced to think to say goodbye to Athos. 

“Porthos?” Athos says. Porthos turns back. “Are you alright?”

Porthos nods, surprised at the concern. He realises he's hugging himself and lets go, trying a smile. It's more a grimace, and Athos winces. Then, Athos motions with his head and opens the door fully. 

“Better come in,” Athos says. 

Athos walks away, leaving the door open. Porthos looks around, then follows him, carefully shutting the door. The flat is laid out almost exactly the same as Porthos's- a hallway opening into a living-space, with a window through to the kitchen. A hallway off the other side of the living-room heading back to the other rooms. Or Porthos assumes so. He walks into the living-room and stops. There's art on all the walls, but otherwise the space is sparse. Clean, modern lines of furniture, a low table with a used plate and an empty wine glass, a TV paused on Lewis. 

“Would you like some wine?” Athos says, coming out of the kitchen, now wearing a jumper and carrying a bottle, filling the empty glass with crimson liquid. 

Porthos feels faintly sick, seeing the red splash into the glass. Suddenly he feels the walls too close. There's red ketchup on the plate, and red oil paint in a gash across one of the pieces, a red stain on the carpet. 

“Whoa,” Athos says. 

Porthos feels hands on his arms, and he thinks to jerk away, but then he realises the hands are all that's holding him up. Dizzy, he tries to sink to the floor, but he's dragged to the left and when he sits it's on a sofa. He's pressed forwards, towards his knees. It makes the blood rush to his head, setting it pounding, throbbing harder than before.

“Breathe. Take a deep breath in,” Athos says, sounding far away. 

Porthos sucks in air, getting a hold of himself. He sits up, and realises Athos had a hand resting on his neck. He notices because Athos keeps the hand there, holding Porthos like that. 

“Better?” Athos asks. 

“I think so,” Porthos says. “Sorry. I didn't mean to come in and freak out.”

Athos sits back, removing his hand. Porthos misses it, which isn't particularly surprising. He's a physically affectionate person, but he doesn't know anyone here, and it's been a long time since he's been able to be free with himself. It's been a long time since anyone's touched him with any kind of affection. Athos drinks his wine, letting Porthos sit in silence. When the wine's done, he switches off the TV and gets up. Porthos watches him go down the corridor. He comes back with a pillow and duvet. 

“Come on,” Athos says. “Lie down. The sofa's pretty comfortable, I sleep out here sometimes. You'll be alright for one night.”

“I should go home,” Porthos says, but he lets Athos help him lie down.

“No you should not. Clearly something's happened to upset you. I think you should have someone stay with you, but so far I've got the impression you don't have time for much other than work, and I've met your friends from work. They're shit. So, you stay here.”

“Athos. I shouldn't...” Porthos says, but he loses track of the thought, pressing into the soft pillow, when Athos honest to god tucks him in, cocooning him in the duvet. 

“You're fine. I wouldn't have let you in if I minded. Go to sleep, Porthos.”

Porthos pries his eyes open, remembering he doesn't want to sleep. He tries to sit up, but Athos presses him down, a hand to his shoulder. Porthos is surprised by the strength. He stays down, but his heart rate is picking up, his breathing coming rough and fast. 

“Shh,” Athos says. “Seriously, go to sleep.”

Porthos calms a little. Athos is calming. Surprisingly calming. Steady, soothing, a little dry. Quiet. Porthos breathes out a long breath, eyes shutting again. Athos is usually harsh, but no, that's not right. Honest. Blunt. No time for other people's mess. But not unkind. Porthos breathes out again, and feels Athos rubbing his arm, his shoulder. 

“Sleep, Porthos,” Athos says, and Porthos does.

__

Athos looks down at Porthos, swirling a little wine in his glass. He's curious. He saw his neighbour arrive in a police car, and had almost not opened the door to him. But he'd remembered the men he met from Porthos's construction site, remembered his hunch that they were not quite above board, remembered the discomfort he'd sensed in Porthos around them. He remembered the soft way Porthos smiled at him, the way Porthos lit up when Athos started being civil to him and having actual conversations. He remembered the way Porthos's face crinkled up when he laughed. 

Athos sighs and lets himself stroke Porthos's cheek, then goes to the kitchen. He turns the lights off in the living-room, then remembers the fine trembles he'd felt going through Porthos and goes back to turn the small lamp on again. He does the meagre dishes from his dinner, wipes down the sides and puts the leftover chilli in Tupperware in the fridge, then he goes to bed. He leaves the light on n the hall, and the light in the bathroom, and the door open. 

__


	2. Chapter 2

Porthos wakes to strange light. There's too much of it. Even with his curtains open, it shouldn't be this bright. Even when he slept late into the day it wasn't this bright. He did know light like this, though, once. He feels his heart kick uncomfortably and opens his eyes before his body gets it's hopes up. It's not his and Charon's flat. He's still in a state of confusion when Athos appears, padding to the bookshelf. Snatches of last night drift up through Porthos's consciousness. 

“Mornin',” he manages, rubbing at his eyes to try and wake himself up faster. 

“Oh,” Athos says, turning towards him. “You're awake.”

“Yeah,” Porthos says. “Sorry. I can get out of your hair, now.”

He gets to his feet, feeling heavy and cumbersome. He gets tangled in the duvet when he tries to take a step and staggers, catches himself, and then goes crashing to the floor. He wonders whether, if he stays lying with his face in the carpet for long enough, the carpet will engulf him. Then, just to complete his bafflement, Athos starts to laugh. It's stifled to begin with, but then it turns to giggles, and then to all out laughing. Porthos rolls onto his back and glares. 

“I apologise,” Athos says, smiling widely and still chuffing with laughter. “I do, really. Only, oh Porthos, that was quite the show.”

Athos comes and untangles the treacherous duvet from Porthos's feet, then offers Porthos a hand up, brushing him down, holding on until Porthos is entirely steady. He still seems inordinately amused. Porthos feels a little tender, still a bit shaky, and can't work out if he's being laughed at or not. He scrubs at his face, rubbing his eyes. His head aches. 

“I'm still so tired, even after sleeping so long, and my head's pounding,” Porthos says, feeling misery encroaching again. “What time is it? I'm supposed to go back to the police station.”

“It's only ten. You didn't sleep well, I'm not surprised you're tired.”

“I didn't?” Porthos says, surprised. He doesn't remember waking, or feeling disturbed, or dreaming.

“You dreamt. And you threw up twice,” Athos says, all traces laughter gone. “I wondered if I shouldn't call someone for you, but I didn't know who.”

“Sorry for disturbing you,” Porthos says, a little stiffly. 

“Don't be. Would you like some breakfast? You're welcome to sleep a bit more, if you like. You can take my bed, if you don't mind bedding that's been slept in a couple of times. There are curtains in there.”

It sounds incredibly tempting, to crawl into Athos's bed and curl up in the space Athos left, to curl up and sleep and not deal with any of this. He shakes his head, though. 

“I'm supposed to go back to the police station,” he says again. “At twelve.”

“Breakfast, then,” Athos says. “Afterwards we'll go up to your flat and you can change, and I'll drive you over.”

“No, that's... too generous. I'm fine, Athos. Really.”

“You might convince me of that if you weren't still trembling,” Athos says, dryly. 

Porthos hadn't noticed, but now he can feel it. A fine vibration all through him. He shivers, wrapping his arms around himself. 

“Come on. Breakfast,” Athos says. 

He walks away from Porthos and Porthos, still sleepy and miserable, trails after him, not wanting to be alone. 

__

Treville is pleased and surprised when Porthos comes back with someone in tow. Treville's down with Aramis when d'Artagnan comes to inform them Porthos is back, and that he has someone with him. 

“I got the impression he had no one to call,” d'Artagnan says, pleased too. “I'm glad he has support after all. I came to collect you, sir, and on the way up we need to pick up details of VS for him.”

“Who did he bring?” Treville asks. “A brother?”

“No. I don't know what he is to Porthos, a friend I think. They introduced him as a neighbour,” d'Artagnan says. “Name of Athos.”

Aramis looks up from the foot he's examining, eyes sharp. 

“I'll come up with you, hang on,” Aramis says, snapping off his gloves and going to rinse his hands. 

They troop up to the offices and gather the bumf about Victim Support, and d'Artagnan ducks into Constance's office, then they head down to the interview room. Treville takes in Porthos's friend with interest. He's small and compact, giving the impression of shortness though that might just be that he's standing beside Porthos. Clean shaven, but with longer hair than most, a little un-kept looking. His clothes look expensive. He's standing beside Porthos, but they're not touching. Treville pushes open the door. 

“Good morning, thank you for coming back. Just a few follow up questions,” Treville say, taking a seat and spreading a file out in front of him. It's not the case file, that's too graphic. Treville just likes to have something in front of him. 

“So it is you. I wondered if I was finally meeting a second Athos.”

Treville looks up at Aramis and watches him take Athos's hand in a warm clasp. Athos leans in, brushing a kiss to Aramis's cheek. Treville is used to Aramis having slept with most people, so he just rolls his eyes and turns back to Porthos, who's looking better than yesterday, but still miserable. 

“Would you like a seat?” Treville suggests, and Porthos drops into one, eyes turning to Treville. He looks vacant, still. “A cup of tea, I think, d'Artagnan?”

“Yeah, sure,” d'Artagnan says, much more interested in what's going on between Aramis and Athos.

He ducks out, though, promptly enough. Treville aligns the bumf and puts it on top of the file of notes, then clears his throat. Aramis gives him reproachful look, but leaves the room. Athos moves to Porthos and leans over him, and Treville wonders if they're lovers, too. 

“I'll wait outside,” Athos says, quietly.

“You don't have to stay,” Porthos says.

He sounds flustered and unsure, and the way he looks at Athos is guarded. Probably not lovers, then. In fact, he'd bet that 'neighbours' is wholly accurate. Athos is standing close, but he's not touching Porthos. He straightens, shrugging, heading for the door. A look of panic briefly flashes across Porthos's face, and Treville wishes Athos had said he's stay. 

“I'll stay,” Athos says, as if reading his mind, pausing by the door. 

He looks back, and he obviously catches the relief on Porthos's face, in his body language. He smiles a small, tight smile. d'Artagnan nudges in past him as he's leaving, holding three mugs. 

“Ow, ow, ow,” d'Artagnan says, putting the mugs down and shaking his hands, smiling. “Hot.”

“No shit,” Porthos says, pulling one of the mugs to him and hunching over it. 

d'Artagnan laughs and sits beside Treville, sprawling in a boyish way across his chair, scooting back so he can hook an ankle over his knee. 

“How was last night?” d'Artagnan asks Porthos, careless and informal in a way Treville's never managed. 

“Alright,” Porthos said. “I stayed with... someone.”

“That lovely bloke who Aramis knows? Athos, was it?” d'Artagnan says, nodding along with Porthos. “He seemed nice. And this morning? Still feeling the effect, hmm?”

“A little. I shouldn' react like this. Got to get a grip.”

“No you don't. Don't get a grip. Just let yourself react, it'll be better in the long run,” d'Artagnan says. “On that note, we're going to give you a huge pile of crap to take away with you, but I do suggest having a look through. It's all about support that's on offer for you. People to talk to, phone numbers, that sort of thing. We've got a pretty good team here, I know a couple of them personally. They run the support for us coppers, too, and they've really helped with stuff. I'm seeing them about the scene yesterday, as it happens.”

Treville listens to d'Artagnan rolling on, and wonders at him. He'd had no idea that the support people he's sometimes been forced to see are the same ones who deal with VS, or that d'Artagnan was seeing them about yesterday. Even if he had, he'd never have thought to share any of it with Porthos. Porthos is looking up, though, meeting d'Artagnan's eyes and nodding. Treville slides the bunf across, feeling he can at least do that much. 

“Thanks,” Porthos says, giving d'Artagnan a smile that crinkles up his face, making him look happier than Treville's seen him yet. “For tellin' me all that. I know it ain't your job.”

“It's my job to make sure you get the support you need,” d'Artagnan says. “I'm happy to share, if it helps.”

“Still. Thank you.”

“You keep saying that you should be able to deal with this,” d'Artagnan says. “Do you want to share with me why? Do you have a reason for thinking that?”

“I dunno,” Porthos says. “Big lad like me, should be tough. Places I grew up taught you to have a thick skin. I dunno, my head hurts.”

“Ever in the army?” Treville asks, getting to the point d'Artagnan's dancing around. “Anything like that?”

“No. Nearly joined up, but, uh,” Porthos flashes a quick grin at Treville, ducking his head. “Got caught out on a drug test. Accidentally turned up high as a kite.”

d'Artagnan sniggers, and Treville gives Porthos a smile. 

“You look like you'd do alright in the army,” d'Artagnan says. “You look like you keep yourself pretty fit.”

“Are you flirting with me?” Porthos says. “No, I know what you're getting at. I work construction, I got into the habit of going to the gym. Hurts a lot less at the end of a week if you keep yourself fit. I'm not particularly skilled in a fight, but I have been known to get into a brawl on a Friday night, I know how to throw a punch. I've done a bit of boxing. Wouldn't know where to begin with... with...” Porthos's head jerks back, then tips forwards, and he sways in his seat. 

“Easy,” d'Artagnan says. “Take your time. Let us know if you want a break.”

“Looked like 'e twisted it's 'ead off,” Porthos whispers. “That glass doesn't hide half as much as you'd think. I think I have a headache.”

“Know anything about anatomy?” Treville asks, getting a glare from d'Artagnan for it. 

“A bit,” Porthos says, mumbling now, eyes closed. “Done a bit of drawing.”

“Porthos,” d'Artagnan says, softly. “If you need a break-”

“I read The Wind-up Bird Chronicles once, where it went into how to skin someone alive, is that any help?” Porthos says, clearly, looking up.

“Okay, we'll take you off the suspect list,” d'Artagnan says. “Please. It's enough, Treville.”

“Do you need a break?” Treville asks. Porthos shakes his head, and he does seem steady enough. “In that case, let's go over the details about what you saw, before anything happened.”

__

“He's hot,” Aramis says, leading Athos through the familiar building to a staff room. 

Athos shrugs, putting the kettle on. Nothing's changed, even the coffee and mugs are in the same place as when he was here. He sets out two and scoops instant in with a grimace. Aramis laughs at him, so Athos adds milk to both. 

“You're such a twat,” Aramis says, amiably. 

He accepts the milky coffee without complaint, and they lean against the counter, side by side. 

“I'm sorry Porthos had to see all that,” Aramis says, sighing. 

Athos grunts, hoping that if he keeps his mouth shut Aramis will talk to fill the silences, the way he used to. 

“I did a sort of reverse time-line,” Aramis says, shivering. “We think the perpetrator broke the neck, then did the damage to the body and the spine. That cause of death was probably bleeding out, rather than the neck break. We think the removal of the foot was pre-mortem. That's a lot to be alive through. A lot to watch.”

Athos starts, but hides it from Aramis through long practise. A lot to watch. Porthos, Athos realises, is a witness. 

“But,” Aramis says. “How are you? What have you been up to since you quit on us?”

“Still holding that against me? It's been a decade,” Athos says. 

“I never held it against you,” Aramis says, surprised. “I was a little hurt you didn't keep in touch, but I knew you were struggling. I was alright with you needing to cut yourself off.”

“I... I did need that,” Athos says, carefully. “I didn't do anything for a couple of years, bummed around drunk. Then I started doing consultancies for people writing police procedurals. That was alright for a bit, but I was soon out of date.”

“What about now? I'm glad you've found someone. I'm really sorry you've got dragged back here, but I can't say I'm not glad to see you.”

“I do a little bit of teaching. Criminal Psychology. I updated my degree with a qualification, and now they pay me an exorbitant fee to do very little. I do some writing, actually,” Athos says. “People sometimes even publish it. Mostly academic articles. What about you?”

“I'm... I'm...” 

“You can tell me if you're struggling,” Athos says. “I know it's been a while, but I can't imagine you're able to be very open, here. I remember what it's like.”

“It's better, now. But, no, not many people know about me. I'm not actually doing too badly. Last year I had a severe depressive episode, and... well. It wasn't good. I lost someone. She died a long time ago, but I hadn't known. I thought she'd run off with her other lover, but she'd died.”

“Ah, I'm sorry I wasn't there,” Athos says. 

“It's alright. I talked to someone, this time. I'm actually alright at the moment. My medication helps even things out, and the cycles are much slower and more manageable. Although, last time I had a manic period I freaked poor d'Artagnan out by cleaning the morgue top to bottom. He came in and I had a couple of the bodies out and I was talking to them while I cleaned the fridges.”

Athos snorts. He's seen Aramis do similar things, and the talking to the bodies isn't unusual at all, but he can imagine it might throw people not familiar with Aramis. 

“Is d'Artagnan the baby with the look of a puppy about him?” Athos asks. 

“That's him,” Aramis says, smiling. “Do you remember Constance? Bonacieux? She was a patrol constable ten years ago.”

“Yeah, I remember her. Right out of school, fierce as anything. Used to slap you a lot,” Athos says, smiling. “I liked her.”

“Of course you did. She's a DI, now. She was d'Artagnan's DI, but then she went and fell in love with him. And slept with him.”

“Who else is still around?” Athos asks, settling in for a good gossip. 

Aramis smiles at him, brightening, and hitches himself up to sit on the counter. 

“Well,” Aramis says. “Do I have a story for you about old Serge.”

__

“Can I have a break?” Porthos manges, choking. 

“Bathroom's down the hall and on the right,” d'Artagnan says, sympathetically. 

Porthos goes. He's in a hurry and walks into someone coming out, and the someone grabs him and pushes him against the door. Porthos feels Charon's hands on him and panics, lashing out, twisting himself away, forgetting where he is and who he is, fighting like he used to. He feels fingers biting into his arm and stills, shivering. 

“Please,” he says. “Please. Charon.”

“Oi, roquefort, let go of 'im. What are you doin'?”

“He walked into me, then freaked out. It's not my fault. Here, have him. You owe me a report, Bonacieux. I expect it this afternoon.”

The hand lets him go and Porthos leans against the wall behind him, breathing hard. 

“It's on your desk you arse. You must've known he was upset, look at 'im. God, what a complete twat. I'm not gonna touch you if you don't want, but let me help you sit down if you can, okay?”

Porthos nods. Whoever it is sounds nice. And she called Charon (not Charon) smelly, if Porthos remembers his cheeses right. 

“Alright. Here you go.”

Porthos feels hands under his forearms, and he leans into them, letting them guide him away from the wall and then down to the floor. 

“Breathe. You got anyone with you, ducks?” 

Porthos shakes his head, tears welling in his eyes. No. Charon doesn't like him to see Flea anymore, he thinks they sleep together. 

“Who's got you in? You've got a visitor badge. Who're you seeing?”

Porthos shakes his head, unable to talk. 

“I'm Constance. The dick who twatted you about before was Rochefort. Excuse me. That was Sir Detective Inspector Rochefort, comte.”

“Cheese,” Porthos manages, stupidly. 

“Yeah, it's close enough that when he calls me out on it I can pretend not to know what he's talking about. He's always complaining about my accent.”

“d'Artagnan.”

“Hmm? What was that, love?”

“I'm seeing him. Today, I mean. And, and... another one. Treville.”

“Oh! You're Porthos. No wonder you're not feeling too great, you poor bugger.”

“And Athos. I came with Athos.”

“Athos. Really? How strange. I knew one, once.”

“Might be the same one. He seems to know... um... well dressed bloke, with a ridiculous moustache, looked a bit precious?” 

“...I think you may mean Aramis, which is unfortunate, as he's standin' in front of us.”

“I've heard worse,” a new voice says. “'Well dressed' is nice, anyway.”

Porthos opens his eyes, and yeah, that's the bloke. He flushes, but decides to brazen it out. He meets Aramis's eyes and shrugs. 

“You were wondering about with a lace hanky,” Porthos says. 

There's a soft snort at Aramis's shoulder, and Athos steps around him, hip checking him and coming crouch in front of Porthos. 

“Are you alright?” Athos asks. “We saw you sitting out here.”

“I'm okay,” Porthos says. “Bit embarrassed. Had a proper freak out.”

“You weren't so bad,” Constance says, and Porthos looks at her, and does a double take. 

She's got hair tumbling over her shoulders, a smile that lights up her face, and a soft, warm beauty that seems to be as much about how she holds herself as how she looks. She's lovely. Porthos smiles tentatively, and she smiles wider, giving his shoulder a squeeze. 

“There you are,” she says. “Hello.”

“Hi,” Porthos says. “I'm Porthos. Oh, you knew that. How'd you know that?”

“d'Artagnan's my boyfriend,” Constance says, smiling even wider. “We're not supposed to talk cases, but I'm doing some leg work on it, so it's sort of allowed.”

“Oh,” Porthos says. “Athos, can you take me home now?”

“Of course. Up you get.”

Athos helps him stand and Porthos is alright for a minute, standing with Athos. He feels like he's okay, that he's got at least one friend. He's so tired, though, head throbbing. He shivers, and sits back on the floor again, letting go of Athos and curling into his knees instead. 

“Sorry,” he says. “Sorry. I feel sick. My head feels like it's going to fall off.”

“Are you going to throw up?” Athos asks. 

Athos, who Porthos knows only as a sarcastic, knowledgable neighbour. This kind tone is new. Porthos groans. He doesn't want pity. Actually, what he always really wanted from Athos is sex. Lots of sex. Porthos looks up, distracted by the thought, looking at Athos's lips. They're lovely lips. 

“Porthos?” Athos asks, sounding uncertain. 

“Don't think I'm gonna chunder,” Porthos says. “Let me sit a minute?”

“Alright.”

Athos sits beside him, shoulder to shoulder, and rests a hand at the back of Porthos's neck. Porthos realises how sweaty he is, and tries to pull away, but Athos's hand closes and holds him. Porthos gives in. Not like he has much dignity left anyway. 

“I'm not usually this pathetic,” he says. 

“Aramis told me about it. About you seeing that. I think I'd be pretty pathetic, too,” Athos says. “Actually, I know I would be.”

“Is he meant to talk about cases?”

“No. I let him assume I already knew. He also thinks I'm sleeping with you, I think.”

Porthos smiles, amused by Athos's tone of dry incredulity. It's put on, Porthos knows. It took him a while to realise that most of the time Athos was making fun of the world around him. That his dry cynicism hid a sharp wit. Now Porthos realises that it also hides a soft heart. He closes his eyes and leans into Athos's hold, breathing deeply. 

“Don't fall asleep on me,” Athos says, five minutes later. “I'm all for you getting some rest, but my butt is going numb.”

“We don' want that,” Porthos says, sleepy, turning his head. “Such a nice arse, you 'ave.”

Athos lets out a surprised huff, that might be laughter. He squeezes Porthos's neck, giving him a gentle shake. 

“You ready to try standing again?” 

Porthos nods. This time he manages to keep his feet. He looks around, but everyone else is gone. Athos holds onto him until he's completely steady, and then lets go. Porthos feels the loss, but as soon as they're moving and it becomes clear Porthos is less than able in terms of steering a straight line, Athos ducks under his arm. He's warm and solid against Porthos's side, and Porthos hums in contentment. 

“I left all my stuff about head dicker-ers in the white room,” Porthos says. 

“Head dickers?” Athos asks. 

“You know; Dr Phil; shrinks. They think I'm batty.” 

“He means the stuff about VS,” Aramis says, coming out of the white room. “Here.”

He talks to Athos, and gives the stuff to Athos, and it's like Porthos isn't even there. Like how Charon used to talk about him. Porthos, feeling belligerent and irritable, straightens up and squares off, and Aramis backs up. 

“Who's 'he'? The cat's father?” Porthos says. “Talk about me like I'm 'ere, why don't you.”

“I'm sorry,” Aramis says, holding up his hands. 

He looks wary, but not scared. Porthos takes a step, arms hanging loose, lowering his stance. Aramis doesn't flinch. Athos looks a bit baffled, though. Porthos feels silly. 

“Sorry,” he mumbles, stepping away from Aramis. 

“Sure,” Aramis says, smiling. 

Stupid smile. Stupid teeth. Stupid man who Athos kisses hello and is affectionate and familiar with. The jealousy surprises Porthos, but it's soothed at once by Athos getting under his arm again, and this time wrapping an arm around Porthos. Protective, and comforting. It's nice. 

__

Athos tries to keep Porthos at home, tries to talk him into resting, but after an hour and a half lying on the sofa Porthos looks about restless enough to break down the walls, so Athos lets him go. He tries to settle, to get some work done. He has lessons to plan, and a dissertation to look over, and an article to write. And a chapter of the novel he refuses to tell anyone except his publisher that he's writing. No one need ever know that 'Olivier Comte' is the same as Olivier d'Athos, Comte de la Fère.

He finds it hard to focus at first, so he pours himself out some wine. That settles him and he manges to look over the dissertation chapter. He scribbles more red than is perhaps kind, but it will all help in the end. Besides, everyone knows he's a hard ass, so if the idiot asked him to be dissertation advisor, on her own head be it. He has a green pen which he uses in the rare occurrences of wanting to leave a compliment. He feels a bit bad about all the red, and her argument is interesting, if badly constructed. He gives her a small green tick next to a particularly good point. 

Athos finds himself drifting, when he's done with the dissertation chapter. He's thinking about Porthos, about the things Aramis let slip about the case, about how shaken Porthos is about it. He's not sure, but from what he's seen of Porthos, he'd bet on more self assurance. Before this, he'd have bet Porthos would be able to hold it together under most circumstances. 

He frowns, thinking. If he knew Porthos a bit better he thinks he might suspect something more is going on. But, he doesn't know Porthos better. He's never bothered much, beyond the occasional conversation which usually hovered around current affairs, the weather, and literature. The phone rings, making his start in surprise. He answer warily. Not many people have his number.

“Athos, it's Aramis.”

“Oh. Hello. I forgot I gave you this number, I thought you were a telesales person.”

Aramis snorts, but when he speaks again he sounds tired and serious. Athos sits up. 

“I thought I'd ring you,” Aramis says. “Check you didn't fake number me.”

Athos stays silent, poking at Aramis without saying a word. He can hear Aramis fidgeting at the other end of the phone and smiles a little. Aramis always was useless at withstanding the silent treatment. 

“Treville got a break in the case,” Aramis says at last, all in one go. “Not a good one.”

“Oh?” Athos says. 

“There was a third person there. Or, fourth if you count your Mr. du Vallon. Someone else was involved. And Porthos never said anything. It casts doubt on his story, and his story's already so broken up. Just a blur of impressions. d'Artagnan says whenever he starts going through it coherently, he bolts.”

“You mean he's looking more and more unreliable.”

“d'Artagnan's arguing for trauma being the reason, and I think that's probably the case. But... why miss out an entire person? It's possible he blocked it, but he seems to have no connection to the case, beyond being in the wrong place at the wrong time. And there's something else.”

“Yes?”

“Well, his finger prints. They're all over everything, obviously, but they're also on the murder weapons. A set of kitchen knives, which is kind of explainable. But also a poker. And it's only his prints that are on there. Athos, how well do you know him?”

“I don't. Not really,” Athos admits. “He's my neighbour. He staggered to my door last night.”

“Is it possible... Treville says that Porthos saw everything through the warped glass, but that doesn't make sense. Not the way Porthos describes things. It's like he was in the room. But if he was in the room and innocent, then why let him go?”

“It is possible that he did it,” Athos says, pushing away from his desk, thinking. “I wouldn't have thought it was probable, though. From what I've seen of him and from what he's said he seems much too together to lose it like you'd have to, to do that much damage.”

“You know how easy it is to be fooled by that, though. We've both been on either end of it enough times.”

“Mm. But with Porthos it's different. It's the weaknesses and vulnerabilities he shows that make him seem so, well. Sane.”

“How do you mean?”

“He's self assured and confident,” Athos says, thinking it through as he talks. “But he's tentative, sometimes, and talks about getting nervous of things. He's openly physical with affection, but he asks me not to touch him if he's not aware I'm there.”

“Maybe something snapped.”

“I think it did, but I don't think he's your perpetrator. I think there's something else. Something that he's either blocking out, or has purposefully forgotten. I don't know what that might be, but something has him badly off balance. I've seen him a bit freaked out before, but usually he'll be aware of it. Now he's just blindly stumbling about.”

“You think he's innocent?” Aramis says, sounding unsure, still. 

“I know he is. I trust that he is. Will you please trust it, too? Talk to Treville, come up with some other options.”

“I can't make any promises. They might pull him in anyway, at least question him further. I'll do what I can, but Athos?”

“Mm?”

“Do me a favour. Don't let him sleep there again. Please. Just be safe. I am willing to trust your gut on this, but just be cautious, for once in your life? You hardly know him, anyway. Even if he's not a... well. Even if he didn't do it, perhaps he shouldn't sleep there, yet.”

Athos remembers that Aramis thinks they're lovers. Even now, when Athos has told him how little he knows Porthos. Athos supposes it's a fair enough assumption. He's pretty sure that Porthos is attracted to him. He's not adverse to Porthos, either. He can see how they read as lovers.

“I'll be careful,” he promises vaguely. 

Aramis makes an unhappy noise, but lets him go. Athos moves to the kitchen, thinking. He really doesn't believe that Porthos has killed anyone, but he's not as sure as he'd like Aramis to believe that Porthos has nothing to do with everything. He doesn't know Porthos well enough to be. He pulls out makings for pasta sauce, realising with a smile that it's Aramis who taught him to make it 'just like they do in Italy'. When Athos had pointed out Aramis had never been to Italy, Aramis had insisted he recreate the spaghetti scene from 'Lady and the Tramp', to make up for being 'an unromantic bumpkin'. Then Aramis admitted that he'd learnt how to make it from a woman he was trying to get into bed with, and Athos had refused to sleep with him for a week. 

They'd never been particularly romantic, or even liked one another all that much. They'd been thrown together by circumstance, both of them struggling with various mental health problems at the same time. When Athos had finally had his little breakdown, it was Aramis who'd helped pick up the pieces. Athos feels bad that he never kept in touch, and he's glad Aramis doesn't hold it against him. He thinks that, now, he might be better placed to like Aramis. He'd not really liked anyone back then, not even himself. Especially not himself. 

He nearly burns the onion, but the doorbell goes and he catches the pan in time, pulling it off the heat and dumping in the garlic, leaving it to simmer in the hot butter. It's Porthos, in trainers, sweats and a tee, sweaty but looking better. Athos opens the door to him without question, directing him wordlessly to the bathroom. He notices that Porthos has a gym bag over his shoulder, so he doesn't offer clothes or a towel, going back to his sauce.

“Um,” Porthos says, appearing damp and re-dressed in clean sweats and t-shirt. “Do you have plans? I can go. I'm feeling a lot better.”

“My plan was for you to eat some of this,” Athos says. “I made enough to feed at least half an army.”

“Oh.”

“Are you someone who'll eat salad? Or are you someone who is more comfortable with slices of cucumber.”

Porthos looks a bit baffled, so Athos pulls him into the kitchen and sits him at the table, setting him the task of chopping up the cucumber. Athos sorts the lettuce, and then considers. He has capers, and prawns. He chooses prawns, and finds a lemon at the bottom of the fruit basket. He leans into the fridge to see what else he can add, and comes up with an avocado and some baby tomatoes. He adds spinach and some mint, and then collects the cucumber from Porthos. 

“I dunno,” Porthos says, looking dubiously into the bowl. “Is this some French thing? I usually think of 'salad' as lettuce and cucumber.”

“That is because you're English, and a philistine,” Athos says. “This is salad. Do you not like prawns?”

“Love them,” Porthos admits, smiling. “Sort of my favourite fish, actually.”

“Sort of?”

“Ah. Well. Um, I had a penchant for tuna fish sandwiches when I was a kid, but I was pretty allergic to them. So I wasn't allowed to eat them. So tuna's my favourite, but prawns got bumped up to the top after I stopped eating tuna.”

“You kept eating it even though you were allergic?”

“I really liked it. I wasn't the smartest kid, I never really bothered about it. I mean people said I was allergic, but I didn't really make the connection between being allergic, and not being allowed tuna fish. So when I got fostered, or moved to a new home, I'd not tell anyone and get myself a sandwich.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, not the brightest knife in the draw. My social worker, once I got one who stuck around, started putting a sticker on me when I got moved, with a warning.”

Athos smiles, a simmer of laughter escaping him. He looks at the salad bowl and then at Porthos, and then laughs harder. Porthos looks pleased with himself, and Athos cups his face, enjoying the smugness there. It's much better than the uncertainty and fear. Porthos leans into the touch, smile softening. 

“I like making you laugh,” Porthos says. 

“Tell me more about your blunt-knife antics,” Athos says. “I'm sure I'll laugh plenty, then.”

“At me, though,” Porthos says. “No, I think I'll only give you the tuna fish for free.”

“Oh? How do I pay for more?”

“I think with kisses. I would like to kiss you.”

Athos sighs and pulls away, and Porthos's face falls, and then closes off. Porthos, Athos has noticed, wears his feelings on his sleeve, but through choice. He's as able to close himself up as Athos is. He's just much better at removing those walls once their erected. 

“I like you,” Athos says. “I do. I think you're kind, and you do make me laugh, which is very rare. But right now really isn't the time to be thinking about this.”

“Why not?” Porthos says, half defiant, half belligerent.

“Because the pasta sauce is about to be ruined,” Athos says, noticing it. 

He goes to save it, and Porthos lets out a huff. When Athos turns back to him, he looks accepting. 

“You're right,” Porthos says. “I'm a little off right now, and we should do this proper, like. So when I am not being a nelly, I'll come bang on your door and ask you out. All proper.”

Athos wants to dissuade him from that course, but Porthos's jaw is sticking out stubbornly, and he stares Athos down. Athos goes with a shrug and serves them both dinner, setting it on the dining table. He rarely eats in here, and it shows- his post is piled up at one end, along with a couple of library books and a jumper. Porthos doesn't comment though, tucking into his pasta. 

“Would you like some wine?” Athos asks, getting himself a glass of red and putting the salad on the table. 

“No thanks,” Porthos says, looking up. 

His eyes get glued to the splash of wine in the glass, and Athos remembers that last night he'd been pouring, too, when Porthos nearly collapsed. He stops, and Porthos looks up, a little glazed. 

“I'll drink white,” Athos says, putting the glass in the sink, for later. 

Porthos doesn't ask him not to, which is enough to make Athos sure it's bothering him a lot. Porthos seems the type to assert his pride wherever possible. Though, perhaps not these last few days. Aramis's warning drifts into Athos's mind, but he dismisses it, fetching a bottle of white instead. 

__


	3. Chapter 3

Treville looks over Aramis's new notes on the case, accepting that Aramis has written a psychological profile of Porthos and pointed out all the ways it doesn't fit the person they're looking for, and moving on with his life. He doesn't want to question it. He might get tangled up in some kind of love triangle. 

“I think he's innocent, too,” d'Artagnan says, softly. 

It's late, and d'Artagnan is tired. Treville knows he's tired, he can see it. It's making d'Artagnan sad, which is unusual. Usually he gets grouchy when he gets tired. Tonight he seems content to curl up in the small comfy chair Treville keeps in the corner of his office, and go over case notes. 

“I know you do,” Treville says. “You like him, and you connected with him. That's my fault, I shouldn't have let you do that.”

“It's my job to make him feel safe and get him talking,” d'Artagnan says, a flash of fierceness animating, and then leaving, him. “I just don't think he did it.”

“Listen to this,” Treville says. “I know you were there, but listen to this, and think about how it sounds.”

Treville digs through the mess on his desk for his mouse and pulls up the interview audio, going to the place he bookmarked earlier. 

I think he's got a cross, wrapped around his left hand... his eyes are horrible, so cold... [can you tell me anything about him? How tall is he?] He's jus' a boy... sticky out ears an 'air stuck to is face... so thin and whi'e, till the blood... [for the record, the description matches the victim]. Sliced them little limbs all open... bones as whi'e as 'is skin... can feel a pulse, still, even though 'is 'ead... 'is neck's 'urt... can I have a break? [bathroom's down the hall-]

Treville turns it off. d'Artagnan looks at him steadily, but there's a tiny crease between his eyebrows. He's thinking. Treville meets his eyes, hoping it'll sink in. 

“No,” d'Artagnan says, soft again, shaking his head. “I think he was in the room, I think you're right. I think there's something stopping him telling us everything. I dunno, maybe he's just scared out of his wits. But I don't think he did it, listen to the way he talks about the victim, sir.”

“I know, it's almost reverent, but-”

“No, not that. Though, yes. But no, I meant that he calls him 'a boy'. He talks about him as if he doesn't know him. Why would you do that to someone you feel nothing about? And he talks about seeing him in the moment, right? I mean, he's not just describing him, it's thoughts and feelings from the moment. He's not retrospectively putting the boy in, the boy is there for him,” d'Artagnan says, bringing his hand down onto his palm to make his point. “He's not a stand in for someone else. You're the one who said it'd take passionate feeling to do that to someone. There's no precision in the cuts. I mean, there's a knowledge of anatomy, what to cut and when and where to find things, but the cuts themselves are uneven, jagged.”

Treville frowns, almost swayed by the argument. 

“His fingerprints are on everything. Only his fingerprints. And what the hell was he doing in the room?”

“I don't know. But... his fingerprints are on everything!” d'Artagnan says, clicking his fingers. “When I got him out from under that table, he was hiding his right hand. You made him show his hands, to see if he'd got the kind of blood on them that suggested he'd just done that, yes? Yes. His left you saw, but he was hiding the right. When I asked him to show it me, he said he'd got it... hang on, I'll remember the wording. 'Got it in the mess'. That's what he said. And then... yeah, I think... 'got it in the mess. He put it in the mess'.”

“What?”

“I thought he was just being dissociative, or he meant 'he made a mess' or 'his mess', I don't know. He wasn't very coherent at that point, I didn't think of anything. But his fingerprints are on everything, and we got an anonymous tip right after it happened, according to Aramis's timeline. What would we have thought if we'd walked in and du Vallon had been standing over the body, hands covered in blood, with his prints all over the weapons?”

“I see where you're going with this. It's thin, d'Artagnan.”

“I know, I know. But... When we were on the scene Porthos said he heard cars and hid himself, thinking someone was coming back. We came no sirens, didn't we? Because the tip off asked us to, right? There's more. You remember yesterday?”

d'Artagnan comes around the desk and plays with the audio, flicking through. Treville smiles a little. Give the boy an inch and he'll take a mile. He's so caught up in his theory he nudges Treville aside to get better access to the computer, folding Aramis's notes into a file and dumping it in Treville's lap. Treville finds himself feeling lighter. d'Artagnan really is going to make a fine detective, once he's been tempered with a bit more experience. 

“Here,” d'Artagnan says. “Listen to this.”

[so you were in the hall, and you saw a man] yeah... there was someone. There... there. He was there... he was there, oh God he was there... [the man who did it? Is that who you are talking about? Just for clarification, for the recording] what? He was there. Um, what? What was the question?... sorry. What was the question?

“Someone else was there,” d'Artagnan says. “And I bet Porthos knew him.”

“Maybe it was the victim,” Treville suggests. 

“You always say look at motivation. I can't see why Porthos would kill a lad he didn't know. But you know what I can see? Someone who knows Porthos wanting to do him harm.”

“Why? He seems like an innocuous kind of person, easy going, not one to rub people the wrong way. Unless, perhaps, he's doing it on purpose.”

“True. But he's risen a long way from where he came from. Working class, care homes. We know he was into drugs enough to be high at a drug test for the army, which is something that might happen if the drug use was habitual, or an addiction. We also know that didn't he get qualifications from school. At some point he turned all that around enough that he's now holding down a good job, good enough to live in the same block of flats as Athos.”

“He works construction, it's hardly a top end career.”

“He's a foreman,” d'Artagnan says, flipping through a file of notes and scanning a page. “Here. Look, he's a foreman and not only that, he's been taking courses. He's already got his GSCEs, and is working on getting his a-levels one by one. He's done good, that can piss people off. Especially if you leave people behind doing it.”

Treville assesses d'Artagnan. Terville knows that d'Artagnan getting promoted to CID and then making sargent, working on important cases, meant leaving behind friends and making a few enemies. He wants to be sure d'Artagnan is using his experience, and not being clouded by it. It makes sense, though. 

“Your argument hangs together,” Treville says. “We'll consider the possibility that Porthos du Vallon is being set up.”

d'Artagnan beams at him, jumping up and running out into the main office space. To write it on the board, Treville suspects. Constance knocks on the door frame and comes in, smiling. 

“Thank you,” she says. 

“He has a good point.”

“Yes, but you gave 'im the chance to talk it through and explain it. Not all would've.”

“Do you have anything to add to this pile of junk?” Treville asks, dumping Aramis's file on top of the rest. 

“I've got hold of the owners, finally. They say they don't know the victim. I've also been able to reach the father. He's been away on business, got back this evening. He'll come in tomorrow. He sounded cut up about it.”

“Thanks. It's not your job, but with Giraud out, we're down a sargeant.”

“Sir, there's something else.”

“Well?”

“It's just... d'Artagnan's theory holds together, until you think about it a bit more. I mean I think it's a possibility that should be considered, but... it's just, du Vallon is huge. He looks like he could take out a tank, and he said he was a brawler.”

“Well?”

“Well, sir, he was stood in that room with the perp and the victim, and he didn't do anything. If you were faced with that, with a man doing that, wouldn't you react? Fight? Run?”

“What about the fourth man? Maybe he was keeping de Vallon still. The boy's neck was snapped first, as well, that's got to shock a person.”

“Yes sir. I'm not saying it's impossible, just that I think du Vallon seems more the type to react with an explosion of violence.”

“Any reason, beyond a hunch?”

“When he went to the bathroom, sir. Rochefort grabbed him, and du Vallon was right out of it, barely on his feet, but he went for Rochefort. Rochefort has a black eye, and teeth marks in his arm, and a wrenched elbow, and sore bollocks.”

“Yes, that does rather upset d'Artagnan's apple cart. No,” Treville says, stopping Constance before she can get up a defence. “I agree, it's still a possibility worth exploring. I'll keep this in mind. Would you mind writing up a report? How come Rochefort hasn't made a complaint?”

“Embarrassed,” Constance says, examining her fingernails. “Obviously."

“What did you do to him?” Treville asks. “Actually don't tell me. Is it going to come back to bite me?”

“No sir.”

“Off you go, then. Gather up the pup and take him home. And tell him I said good work tonight.”

“It'll be better tomorrow, coming at it fresh, sir.”

“I hope so. Up to now, it's just a mess.”

__

Athos wakes to the sound of someone pounding on his door. He staggers out of bed and down the hall, then goes to the kitchen to get a jug of water. He wants to do something to whoever it is being an arse at fuck o'clock in the morning. He wrenches open the door and throws the water into the face of the annoying knocker, then blinks at Porthos as Porthos sputters out his shock. 

“Oh,” Athos says. “It's you. Sorry. Come in.”

“Who did you think it was?” Porthos asks, and he sounds hysterical, which is ridiculous. 

“It's just water. Are you coming in or not?”

“I don't know. I don't know. What are you doing? Why did you do that? I'm wet. You threw water at me. Why did you do that? Are you okay?” Athos blinks at the sudden change in subject. Porthos jerks into the flat, shutting the door, and reaches out, holding Athos still and running hands over his body. “Just gotta check you. Stand still. You're so white, why are you so white?”

“Porthos, what are you doing?” Athos asks, accidentally repeating Porthos. 

“Just checkin', just checkin'! Quiet, be quiet. Obviously. Charon, shut up! Fuck's sake, won't shut up, won't get out 'a my head. Keep it down in there!” 

Porthos lets Athos go and presses a fist to his head, pacing up and down the hall, talking to himself, high pitched and panicked. Athos watches, wondering if Aramis is right after all and Porthos isn't a nut job. Or at least someone with problems too big for Athos to deal with. But thinking of Aramis makes him actually think of Aramis, and he's seen Aramis like this. Wound up, manic, going a mile a minute. He knows how to deal with Aramis. 

“Come on,” Athos tells Porthos, guiding him into the living-room and putting on some lights. “Sit, in the arm chair. Now.”

Porthos sits, watching him, wary. 

“Okay,” Athos says. “Lay it on me.”

“What?” Porthos croaks. 

“Talk. What's in your head?”

“I don't know,” Porthos says. 

“Charon?”

“Oh. He won't shut up. Keeps telling me to get into the house, you know? Stay in the house. Stay in the house. Got to stay in. Shoved me down the stairs once, but that was a fight. I was dreaming. You were in it.”

“Who's Charon?”

“No one. Just I was dreaming. He's not actually in my head, not actually talking to me. Just my paranoid brain sounds like 'im,” Porthos says, and he's steadying. “I was dreaming. Sorry, you were in it. You were there, all your white limbs and dark hair. You were wet, earlier. You had a shower. Hair stuck to your head. To your face. An' you're very white.”

“Yep. I'm as Aryan as they come.”

“No. I mean white. The colour. You were cold, I think. Very white.”

“I was cold. Do you mean my hands? I have bad circulation.”

“Yeah. Your fingers. I was dreaming about it. But you were there, instead of him, and you were dead.”

Porthos subsides, going quiet. Athos goes to him, kneeling, taking his hands. He doesn't know what to do next, but it seems to be enough. Porthos holds on to him and curls forwards, head pressing to Athos's knuckles. He cries, then stops and sits up. 

“Better?” Athos asks. 

“Yeah. Sorry, I shouldn't have woke you up. Woken you up. I don't remember coming down here,” Porthos says, eyes wide and scared. “I don't remember coming down here, or coming in. Did I hurt you?”

“No, of course not. Come on, come lie down on the sofa. You need more sleep.”

“I should go.”

“At the risk of repeating myself from yesterday, no you should not. I should have asked you to stay to start with. Come lie down, I'll get a pillow and a duvet.”

When Athos comes back with the promised items, Porthos is sleepy and pliant, all panic gone. He gets hold of Athos's hand a moment, then lets go and turns away. 

“I'm alright,” Porthos says, roughly. “I really am. It was just a nightmare.”

“Okay. Go to sleep.”

Porthos, in what is becoming a habit, follows orders and goes under.   
__

“This morning I'm going to put everything away from me,” Porthos says, scraping out a chair at the table and helping himself to cereal and milk and coffee. “I'm going to just push it away and do something nice, spoil myself. I'm between jobs till next week, and there's only a bit of paperwork to do for the next job, so I'm going to get my hair cut and a shave.”

“Sounds decadent,” Athos says. 

He had too much wine last night, he drunk most of the bottle of white and the entire bottle of red. That, along with his broken night's sleep, has him feeling rough. And cantankerous. Porthos doesn't seem to mind. 

“I'm going to stop by Tesco on the way home and pick up food, so I have a couple of questions. Firstly, do you want anything from the shop? Secondly, I'd quite like to repay the dinner you made me with one of my own. Can you do that any time soon, and if so, what do you like? Lastly, can you tell me what kind of wine you like? You'll have to be specific, I'm shit at wine. I want to buy you a bottle to say thank you for all this you've done for me.”

“Piss off,” Athos says, after a moment thinking about it. His head hurts. 

“I'll ask again later,” Porthos says, sounding amused. 

“God, shut up.”

Porthos does, eating quietly. He disappears to the bathroom and comes back with painkillers and a cool pack (Athos doesn't remember having the latter, then he recognises it as one intended for keeping wine cool and remembers it). He leaves Athos with a tall glass of water, the cool pack against the back of his neck soothing his headache, and piece of paper with a scrawl of illegible writing that is pretending to be a list of questions and a mobile number. Athos is pretty sure it's actually just Greek or something. He goes back to bed, deciding the day is a bust. 

He wakes up again late in the afternoon and finds the note on the table. It has a smiley face on it, but is now legible at least. Just about. Athos texts Porthos. 

1\. no, I don't need anything. Actually ice cream. I need ice cream.  
2\. Can you cook? If yes, I like French food. I'm not allergic to anything.  
3\. You can't afford the wine I like. Dinner will do as a thank you.  
4\. Don't put smiley faces on things

Porthos just sends back a horrific amount of emoticons. Athos ignores him the rest of the day, as Porthos sends him sadder and sadder faces. He's just about to break, finding himself laughing at Porthos's latest text.

:'(   
'  
'  
'  
'

The phone rings on the desk, though, and it's the landline again. Twice in a week is unusual enough that Athos thinks it's probably Aramis. He's right, and Aramis sounds troubled again. 

“Just tell me,” Athos says, with a sigh. 

“It's not bad. Or not really. Only, the victim's father came today, and he identified the body. Okay, it is bad. It's really bad. He saw a picture of du Vallon- of Porthos, in the case file. d'Artagnan left it out, he's still quite new to this all and he had the file with him when they talked to Mr. de Mauvoisin, and when he went to the bathroom and Treville went for coffee, Mr. de Mauvoisin saw it, and he saw Porthos, and he recognised him.”

“So?”

“He said Porthos was friends with his son. That he's sure it was Porthos, because he'd been worried about the kind of influence Porthos would be.”

“Why? Porthos isn't a bad influence.”

“Apparently... well, Mr. de Mauvoisin said he was worried about drugs. We know Porthos has a history of some kind with drugs. Treville and d'Artagnan are on their way to question Porthos again.”

“I don't think he's home. He went out,” Athos says. 

“Then they'll wait. You know how this goes, Athos. If he doesn't show up, they'll ask him to come in for questioning. You know how this goes.”

“Do they have enough to arrest him?” Athos asks. 

“Yes, they have plenty. I don't know if they will, d'Artagnan's stuck on this theory where Porthos is set up, but Treville's by the book, Athos. He'll weigh up the evidence and go by that, regardless of his gut.”

“Okay.”

“What are you going to do?” 

“Nothing. I'm going to see if Porthos is home, and I'm going to see if they'll let me sit in on the questioning. And I'll decide whether to advise Porthos to get a lawyer.”

Athos looks at his mobile. There's another text blinking at him. 

Police are her, had assumd be doin dinne tonig bt other nght if u made sam asump x p

 

“I have to go,” Athos says. “They're here.”

__

Porthos stares at d'Artagnan, too shocked to reply. He feels faintly sick, but he's been nauseas most of these past few days, so he ignores that. Also, a small part of him chimes in, it would serve detective sergeant d'Artagnan right if he got puked on again. 

“Porthos?” d'Artagnan says, and he's using his extra gentle voice. “Why didn't you tell us you knew him? It's okay, we're not going to take you in. But this is withholding evidence, it doesn't look good.”

“I didn't,” Porthos says. “I didn't know 'im. Never seen 'im before in me life.”

“We know that you did,” d'Artagnan says, still gentle. 

He looks like he's going to say something else, but someone presses the doorbell. Treville starts to get up, but Porthos glares at him and gets up instead, walking to the door, trying to keep calm because they think he did it, they think he did it. They thought that before, they don't 'think it'. They 'think it again'. Run.

Porthos opens the door. He stares at Athos, who's in a shirt and jeans and a woolly cardigan that hangs open at the front and looks like nothing Porthos has ever seen him wear. He realises with a start that it's his cardigan. Athos holds out a bottle of wine. 

“I texted you,” Porthos says. 

“I got them. I still hate smilies,” Athos says, acerbically, letting go of the bottle and stalking into the flat. 

Porthos grabs hold of the bottle, and turns to find Athos facing off with Treville, both glaring. 

“I tried to tell you,” Porthos says to Athos, and then turns to Trevile. “He's here for dinner. I texted him, he didn't get it. I should have called.”

“We'll just need a few more minutes of Mr. du Vallon's time,” Treville says, ignoring Porthos. “Please wait outside.”

“No,” Athos says. “He's allowed someone with him, isn't he? Open the wine, Porthos.”

“We need to talk to him in private. It's just a few questions,” Treville says. 

“Open the wine,” Athos says again. 

Porthos goes to the kitchen (his is open to the living-room, smaller than Athos's, no table. The comparisons come absently, disconnecting him from the scene out there). He gets a tumbler, he has no proper wine glasses. The bottle has a twist top. Porthos pours out a glass, and loses himself in the splash of red liquid. 

__

Treville turns at du Vallon's cry of pain. du Vallon has a glass balanced on the very edge of a counter top, and it's full to overflowing, red wine spilling over the marble-imitation counter and onto the beige carpet, seeping in. As they all watch, stunned, du Vallon drops the wine bottle on top of the glass and both smash. du Vallon starts scrabbling about, picking bits of glass out of the wine. 

“Stop,” Athos says, going to still du Vallon's hands. “Stop. I'm sorry, I forgot, I forgot. It's okay.”

du Vallon tugs his hands experimentally, and frees one, picking up more glass. 

“Damn. Now look, you've cut yourself,” Athos says, catching the hand again.

du Vallon drops the glass and stares at his bleeding hand. The blood flows fast, over his fingers and onto Athos's. du Vallon cries out again, frantic. 

“Bugger, bugger!” Athos says. “d'Artagnan, come help me! The wine, it freaks him out, and he had a nightmare about me. My skin goes white on my hands, I have bad circulation.”

“Bloodless,” d'Artagnan says, striding across and putting a tea-towel calmly over both Athos and du Vallon's hand, pressing to staunch the bleeding. 

“Porthos?” Athos says. 

“You're bleeding,” du Vallon says, then sucks in a great gasp of air. “No.”

“Shh. It's you who's bleeding, actually. I'm fine.”

“There's just so much of it,” du Vallon says. 

“No there's not,” d'Artagnan says. “Look, it's all cleaned up. See? Almost good as new.”

d'Artagnan lifts the cloth to show du Vallon his cut, then presses quickly back on, so it doesn't bleed again. They stand still and quiet for a while, and du Vallon starts to shake. 

“Shit,” du Vallon says, eventually. “I spilt your wine.” 

“It's fine,” Athos says. “Shh. Come sit, it's fine.”

They all make their way back to the sofa and armchairs. Athos takes the sofa with du Vallon. He sits with one knee up, leaning back into the sofa, du Vallon held protectively against his body. Treville and d'Artagnan take the two arm chairs. 

“Are you up for a few questions?” d'Artagnan asks, in his gentle voice. 

“Don't speak to him like that when you're accusing him,” Athos snaps, eyes angry. 

“Alright,” d'Artagnan says, switching to another soft, careful voice, this one more neutral. Treville wants to tell Athos off, to tell him that d'Artagnan isn't using a voice to manipulate, that he really cares. But he doesn't. He stays quiet and lets d'Artagnan do the questioning. “I need to ask you this, and I need you to tell me the truth, Porthos. Did you or did you not know Jean Mauvoisin?”

“I didn't,” du Vallon whispers. “Don't know the name, didn't know 'im from sight, don't know 'im at all.”

d'Artagnan looks troubled. He searches Treville's eyes, and Treville gives him a little nod of encouragement. 

“Can you believe that while I accept your answer, I still need to ask some more questions about it?” d'Artagnan says. 

“Yeah,” du Vallon says. 

“Good,” d'Artagnan says. “Is it possible you knew him under a different name? I'm going to give you a photo of him.”

Treville thinks that's a nice touch. It's a photo from before, from the victim's father. du Vallon takes it and looks at it, frown deepening. He shakes his head a couple of times, as if to clear it rather than as a negative. 

“This ain't right,” du Vallon says, tilting his head to look at Athos. “I don't think this is right.”

“That's not the person you saw?” Athos asks, turning du Vallon's hand so he can see the picture too. 

“It is,” du Vallon says. “But... something's different. I don't know.”

“His hair's longer in the photo,” d'Artagnan says. 

“He looked older,” du Vallon says. 

Treville watches d'Artagnan frowns and wills him to keep his balance, not give away that they've only seen the victim post mortem, that the facial wounds obscure so much that he's not recognisably the boy in the photo. 

“This picture,” du Vallon says, surer. “It's old. A year at least.”

“Do you know him?” d'Artagnan asks, hope bleeding into his tone. 

“No,” du Vallon says. “Not from... not from before.”

“Alright,” d'Artagnan says, nodding. “I'll make a note that you think there's a discrepancy between the picture and the person you saw.”

“Yeah, couple of years, I'd guess,” du Vallon says. 

“This question is going to upset you,” d'Artagnan says, and Treville knows what the question's going to be. He braces himself for Athos's wrath. “You say that Mauvoisin looked different in the picture, and before. You told us that you only saw him through the warped glass of the living-room. I've gone back and had a look. You couldn't have seen clearly through that glass.”

Athos doesn't react. Treville's mind goes straight to Aramis, and he realises in the same moment that Athos probably did get the text. He wonders if the whole thing, the wine and blood and du Vallon freaking out, if it was all a set up. du Vallon looks upset, though, and Treville doesn't think Athos seems the type to willingly upset someone. Or not someone he likes, anyway. Athos seems just the type to willingly upset people he doesn't like. du Vallon is muttering to himself, face pinched up. 

“Porthos?” d'Artagnan asks. 

“You didn't ask him a question,” Athos says. 

“How did you know there was a discrepancy when you only saw Mauvoisin through the glass?” d'Artagnan says. 

Accepting the discrepancy is nice, Treville thinks. It'll help du Vallon accept d'Artagnan as a friendly. 

“I wasn't behind the door,” du Vallon says. 

He sounds like he's in a trance. Athos holds him closer, but doesn't interrupt. He glares at Treville now instead of d'Artagnan, too, which Treville decides is a good sign. 

“Where were you?” d'Artagnan asks. 

“I was there, standing in front of him. I was asking him why he was in the Fitzroys' house. Louis Fitzroy was real pointed about me letting no one in. I was annoyed.”

“What happened?”

“Someone came up behind him and twisted his head. It hurt his neck, I think. He went all funny looking, and crooked. Then he fell on the floor.”

“Then?”

“Stop,” Athos says, softly. “Don't push him, please. d'Artagnan, please.”

“Let's skip ahead,” d'Artagnan says. “What happened before you got under the table?”

“I got my hands in the wine,” Porthos says. “It was all over the place, someone spilt it. I tried to clean it up. I had to get it clean, because... I don't know. I don't know I don't know!”

Porthos leaps off the sofa and makes for d'Artagnan, roaring, sudden anger twisting his face. Treville is out of his chair and across the room, but he's not fast enough. Porthos lifts d'Artagnan from the chair and launches them both at the floor, rolling over and over. 

“Porthos!” Athos says. “I didn't know he'd do that!”

The latter is directed at Treville, reigniting the suspicion that the wine was on purpose. It nags at Treville as he pulls Porthos off d'Artagnan and into a tight hold. 

“I'm alright, I'm alright,” d'Artagnan says, sounding amazed. “He didn't hurt me. I thought he was going to kill me, for a second, that I'd got it all wrong. He didn't hurt me, though. Jean, he didn't hurt me!” 

Treville regrets telling anyone his first name, ever in the history of the world. Hearing it on the lips of d'Artagnan shocks him. He doesn't answer to it anymore, not even in his own head. The surprise makes him let go of Porthos. He gapes at d'Artagnan, then gets a grip on himself and turns on Athos. 

“You brought the wine on purpose,” Treville says. 

“I thought he might tell you something, exonerate himself,” Athos says. “It flicks a switch in him. I think he really tried to clear up wine, at the house.”

He moves over to Porthos and, without touching, ushers him back to the sofa. 

“And he did exonerate himself,” d'Artagnan says. “He didn't hurt me. Constance said he reacted violently. Well, yeah, we've seen that now, but he doesn't harm people. Except Rochefort, but I'd probably knee Rochefort in the bollocks if he grabbed me and pressed me against the bathroom wall. 

“He. Did. What?” Athos says, low and dangerous.

“I don't think he knew about Rochefort, pup,” Treville says, shaking his head. “Later, Athos. Please.”

“Oh. Sorry,” d'Artagnan says. “I thought he'd have told you. But he exonerated himself, right, sir?”

“I can't say I lay much store by the whole attacking you thing, d'Artagnan. I think I do believe him, though. Aramis's report suggests that Mauvoisin's neck was sn-”

“Shush,” Athos snaps. 

“From behind,” Treville finishes. “I think he might be telling the truth.”

“I knew you believed in him, sir,” d'Artagnan says. “He didn't know Mauvoisin either, did he, sir?”

“I don't think he did,” Treville says. “If only because we've been talking about Mauvoisin all evening and he hasn't been reacting. Maybe he only knew him as 'Jean', but he doesn't seem to react to that, either. Even when it's yelled in glee across the room.”

“Sorry, sir,” d'Artagnan says. “You know what this means, right?”

“Mauvoisin senior lied to you,” Athos says, coldly. He's cradling Porthos close, holding him, and Treville is sure now that they're lovers, and not just neighbours. “I wonder why he'd do a thing like that? Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that his most recent photograph of his son is at least a year old?”

“We get the point, Athos,” Treville says, sourly. 

It's been a bad night all around. He goes to get d'Artagnan and tows him out, pausing to say goodbye and then shutting the door. 

“I knew you believed my theory, sir,” d'Artagnan whispers.

“If you want to use a first name, pup, you can use Treville. Everyone else does. Even my mother calls me Treville now.”

__


	4. Chapter 4

Porthos wakes up in his own bed, and doesn't remember how he got there. He remembers Athos showing up with wine, for dinner, not getting his text, but after that it's a blank. He feels stiff and heavy with tiredness, when he tries to move. He rolls over anyway, intending to get up to take a piss, but he bumps against another body. He freezes. 

“Charon?” he whispers. 

“It's Athos.”

“Oh,” Porthos says, relieved. “Oh! Hello,” Porthos lets it curl through him, lets it come out heavy and suggestive.

“No, not 'hello'. You were upset, that is all.”

“You're very generous, towards a man you've really only known a couple of days,” Porthos says. 

“You seem to need it.”

“Yeah,” Porthos says, hope fading. “Bit pathetic, aren't I?”

He sighs. Athos is there, though, in the bed with him. Porthos takes advantage of it, burrowing closer. He realises Athos is under a separate duvet and is hurt that he's not trusted. It's fair enough, though. He wouldn't really want to share a bed with a stranger, especially if he knew they liked him a little bit too much. 

“Stop thinking,” Athos says. “Sleep.”

“I need to pee.”

“Do that first, then sleep.”

Porthos grumbles, but staggers out of bed. He feels off balance, his head stuffed, as if he's hungover. He pisses quickly and hurries back to bed, flopping down tiredly and landing on Athos. 

“Sorry,” he says, then has an idea. He wriggles around and gets under the duvet, snuggling close to Athos, and finally gets himself some nice body-warmth and closeness. “Oh. Wrong duvet. Sorry.”

Athos only laughs at him. Then, to Porthos's surprise, he wraps Porthos in a hug and sighs. 

“I've changed my mind,” Athos says, and Porthos makes a hopeful noise. “Not about that. About sleeping.”

“You want to not sleep?” Porthos says, trying to fathom out what Athos is on about.

“I want you to stay awake for a few minutes. I want to ask you a question.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“Who is Charon?”

“Oh,” Porthos says again. “Um.”

“Just tell me.”

“I grew up with him, in the home, like. For a bit, anyway. We got fostered together. The family had a thing about black kids. But my skin was too light, and he was too much trouble, and we got tossed back. Put in different homes. We still saw each other a lot, but we grew up different from then. When we were teenagers he was heavily into drugs. I used to do it too, with him and Flea, another friend of ours who did the circuits. You know, lots of homes, ran into each other here and there.”

“I get the picture,” Athos says. 

“I used to get loaded with him, but for me it was just with him. Just to see him. We dated for a while, when we were... I dunno. Seventeen? Eighteen? Still kids, anyway. He was jealous. He was such a kind kid, so generous and warm. And so much fun to be around. He had great ideas for game. But he was paranoid, see? With the drugs. Mostly hash around me, but he's sometimes pop something, or snort something, forget I was there.”

“I'm sorry.”

“He was a good guy.”

“Was?”

“Haven't seen him for years.”

“He's been coming up a lot.”

“We tried living together. We were both broke, both care kids with nothing going for us, and it seemed the obvious thing to do. I got a council flat and he paid half the rent. He was paranoid, like I said, and it was... it was hard,” Porthos says, trying to draw a blind over it. 

“Tell me?”

Porthos considers it. Athos is warm against him, though, and holding him, and close. He's also Athos, kind and warm and fun to be around. 

“You're like I think he might've grown up. Not really,” Porthos amends. “But the same kind of person, you know? Not down at the details, just the broad strokes.”

“Your type, hmm?”

“I didn't mean it like that.”

“I know. Tell me about living with him?”

“Why?”

“I want to know.”

“He would go for days where he wouldn't let me out of the house, thinking I was in danger. Think he thought, somewhere where he was still logical, that the cops would pick me up. He'd hold me, if I tried to leave for work. Hang onto me until it hurt, leave bruises. I suppose it fits a lot of the patterns of abuse. He was just scared, though.”

“It's alright, I believe you when you tell me he was a good man.”

“He wasn't that. Paranoid, criminal, fucked up. I loved him, though, for all our collective sins.”

“It keeps coming up.”

“I think it's the pressure, the stress. Maybe it's also because... mostly because, actually...” Porthos takes a deep breath, pressing close as he can. “I'm scared, A-A-Athos.”

“Did you stutter, when you were younger?” 

“Yeah, a b-bit. At first. My Mum spoke Haitian Creole, and English all jumbled up t-t-together with the few French words she knew. She knew how to say carpark, and roundabout, and welcome. I was-was forced to just use English, when she died, and I was only six, and it upset me.”

“Do you want to tell me about her?”

“My m-mother? I barely remember her. Just her voice, and the songs she sang, and the way she talked. No one spoke like her after she died. Until two-thousand and ten. I came home and put the news and on and there was someone, on my TV, who sounded like her.”

Athos is silent for a while. Porthos waits for him to make the connection, not feeling up to spelling it out, but not wanting to go on until Athos gets it. 

“The earthquake,” Athos says. 

“Yeah. She told me about Haiti, I'm sure she did. But I just can't remember. I've never been.”

“What was her name?”

“Marie Cossette. I don't know her surname, she made du Vallon up and changed it legally. Thought it sounded better, I suppose.”

“Oh, that means you can't find her family, doesn't it?”

“Meant they couldn't find 'em, after she died. They found my father. His name's on my birth certificate. He didn't want me, though. T-t-took-took me for three days, realised I was half-mute, with her gone, and very obviously mixed race, and handed me over to the f-foster system. Put me birthday down wrong and all, and lost my-my birth certificate. I got a duplicate when I was eighteen, and it turned out I'd been celebrating it eight months early.”

“You life sounds shit, Porthos,” Athos says. 

Porthos laughs, curling in around Athos. Because yeah, some of it's been a bit hard, but not all of it. He's had Charon, he's been in love, he's got a career and a nice flat. He's been a bit lonely recently, but that seems to be looking up. 

“It's not been half bad,” Porthos says. “Care homes suck, without a doubt, but Flea and Charon were my siblings, same as anyone has. I got love, which not everyone does. I had a good social worker, which was a miracle. I did alright, Athos. It wasn't all shit.”

“Good. That's good.”

“What about you?”

“Me?”

“Yeah. Tell me about your life.”

“Another time,” Athos says, and he sounds sad again. 

Porthos holds him closer. 

“I'll talk, then,” Porthos says. “I fell in love another time. After Charon. And Flea. Shh! I know I just said they were my siblings! Stop laughing. I just meant they loved me, okay? They weren't really siblings.”

Athos's giggling subsides and he goes pliant in Porthos's arms, warm and present and wonderful. He smells like oranges. 

“Samara. I fell in love with Samara. She was incredible,” Porthos says, closing his eyes, remembering her. “Really something else. She was so proud of her heritage. She was at university here, wanted to be a writer, studied world literature. She wrote beautiful poetry. Got me reading, and got me thinking about my mother and Haiti and what I came from. She wrote so many beautiful things.”

“What happened?”

“She went back to Morocco, when she finished school. We knew she was going, it was only ever what it was. I loved her, though. She sounded different to my mother, but the way she muddled up languages was familiar, the way her mouth curled around English words, lips carving them out like sculpture, as if she was tasting them. She revelled in the words, picking up languages all over the place.”

Porthos yawns, and carries on, mumbling now, sleep closing over him. 

“She'd talk, when I couldn't sleep, reciting poetry in Arabic, told me about the smell of real spices, the colours of things under real sun, the way people sounded when it wasn't always raining...”

__

“I've got it!” d'Artagnan says, crashing into Treville's office. 

Treville waits, stifling his laughter. d'Artagnan realises Treville's not in his office and crashes back out. There's moment of silence, then d'Artagnan crashes into Constance's office. 

“I've got it!” he yells again, beaming when he finds Treville and Constance and Aramis all there. “Fantastic! Wait, hang on, why are you all having a meeting without me?”

“You had vanished on some mysterious trip to the tech wizards,” Constance says. 

“Oh. Yes. Yes! Okay, so I know we went over the camera footage from the surveillance things closest to the house,” d'Artagnan says ('surveillance things?' Aramis mouths at Constance, who stifles her amusement). “But we didn't know what we were looking for then.”

“And we do now?” Treville asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes. Or I did, anyway. Knew what I was looking for. Don't know about you lot, you old stick in the muds. Okay. Look at this,” d'Artagnan puts a disc into Constance's computer and boots it up. “The guys downstairs burnt this for me, I owe them doughnuts now. This is from the camera down the street, at the Sainsbury's there. Look, here. This car. Okay? See the number plat? Good. This... here. This bit is from a camera the other end of the street, at the garage. Same car, right?”

“So there was a car that went past a supermarket and then a petrol station,” Treville says. 

“Look at the time! Mauvoisin died at twelve thirty ish. The Sainsbury clip is at twelve ten, and the petrol station is twelve fifty. Now look look look! This is from a traffic cam about five minutes away from the Fitzroys' home. And... pause it! There!”

“A blurry image of a man driving a car,” Aramis says. “Congratulations.”

“This guy was at the murder scene at the right time, for the right amount of time,” d'Artagnan says. 

“It's a lead,” Treville says, shrugging. “If we can find the car it might be worth pulling the shadowing pixels guy in.”

“It's definitely worth it,” d'Artagnan says, tapping the mouse a couple of times, to make the video vanish and an image file open. “This is an enhancement of that image. Look.”

They all peer at the slightly blurry picture. Aramis gasps dramatically, then slaps a hand over his mouth. 

“Sorry,” he says. “But that's...”

“That, ladies and gentlemen,” d'Artagnan says, “that is Monsieur Émile Mauvoisin, Mauvoisin senior. Not only that, but look. There's someone with him. It's not his son, because his son is dead by now. Our fourth man.”

“I'll write a book,” Aramis says, voice low and dramatic. “It's a murder story. I've just started it... based on fact. I'll call it... the Fourth Man!”

“Do shut up,” Constance says, giving him a kick. “Is there a clearer image of the fourth guy, Charlie?”

Treville wonders who Charlie is for a minute, then remembers that d'Artagnan's first name is 'Charles'. It's a nice reminder of why he's stuck with this mess of a case in the first place, and he scowls at both Constance and d'Artagnan.

“No,” d'Artagnan says, ignoring Treville's scowl. “But it's enough, right? It's enough to put Mauvoisin at the scene, with an accomplice?”

“We know the accomplice isn't Porthos,” Aramis says, a slow smile spreading over his face. “Because Porthos was there when everyone and their aunt showed up, at one ish.”

“One ten. Call came in at twelve forty two, and first response hit the scene at one ten,” d'Artagnan says. 

“I don't understand one thing in your theory,” Aramis says, frowning. 

“Just one thing?” Treville mutters. 

“Shush,” Constance says. 

“If Mauvoisin was going to frame Porthos, it doesn't make sense. Why would Porthos just wait around between the time Mauvoisin left and the time we showed up?”

“Ah,” d'Artagnan says. “That's where you come in. Do you remember Porthos that day? He was sick and dizzy, right?”

“Yes, I remember. He threw up on your shoes.”

“He kept complaining about a headache, the next day,” d'Artagnan says. 

“Yes, he nearly threw up all over Connie,” Aramis says. 

“Exactly! So, it's likely he had a concussion, no? Mild, undiagnosed because everyone assumed it was shock.”

“They knocked him out,” Aramis breathes. 

Treville sighs. They're all at it, now. Completely swayed by d'Artagnan's enthusiasm. 

“It's all circumstantial,” Treville says. “I admit that it's enough for us to consider, but please try not to fit the facts to this hair-brained theory?”

“Oh,” Constance breathes. “Um, I think I have something else, guys.”

“What is it?” Treville says. 

“Evidence for you. Look who that driving licence is registered to.”

“Jean Mauvoisin,” Aramis says. “We've got him, haven't we?”

“It's enough to bring him in for questioning,” Treville says. “No arresting him yet, though!”

“I've got a better idea,” d'Artagnan says. “Sir.”

“Well, out with it,” Treville says, sighing. “You've got us all on the edge of our seats, pup.”

“We bring Mauvoisin this evidence, but we say we have no picture of the licence and show him a much less clear image of the driver. Of him. We ask if he recognises the car, maybe the image rings a bell, you know. Nudge him. Gently gently. Maybe he'll hand his accomplice to us on a platter,” d'Artagnan says. 

“Drop a few hints about fingerprints and DNA under the fingernails,” Aramis says, smiling. “Draw him a picture of us suspecting someone, with enough evidence to convict if we can match it all up. Don't mention the fourth man.”

“It's brilliant,” Constance says. 

“Before we do all that ridiculous stuff I've got a better idea,” Treville says. 

“What's that?” d'Artagnan says, hurt.

“We ask Porthos,” Treville says, sighing. “Look, chances are d'Artagnan's right and this forth guy is someone Porthos knows. I have a feeling that Porthos is the link to the Fitzroy's house, too. So far we've been able to find no reason for the murder happening there, but Porthos worked there.”

“It's possible that it was just a chance thing,” Constance says. “They didn't expect to find Porthos there, but he turned out useful?”

“It's possible. I like my theory better, though,” Treville says. “This case keeps coming back to Porthos, and it's not just physical evidence. It's the way Porthos has been reacting, the things he's been saying when he's completely out of it.”

“Someone knew how he would behave,” Aramis says. 

“I have a theory, too,” Constance admits, flushing a little when they all turn their attention on her. “It's just the way Porthos reacted when Rochefort got at him. That wasn't just from the scene. Haven't you all kind of thought there's something a little bit off about Porthos, this whole time?”

“I have,” Treville says. 

“We know you have,” d'Artagnan snaps, then softens it with another 'sir'. 

“Rochefort made Porthos react in a certain way. It wasn't the reaction of a man who's witnessed something, it was the reaction of a man who had experienced something. He lashed out, then when that didn't free him, he went limp. He knew how to get away.”

“You think whoever did this triggered an old traumatic stress reaction in Porthos,” Aramis says, very quietly. The room stills around him. Aramis is being very serious, and that's different enough to cause them all to go silent. “It fits. You're right, Connie. The things Porthos says when he's out of it are off, a bit sideways. And then there's the thing with the wine. He's reacting to two things. Or he's reacting to these new things, but they're triggering old things. If they really have done this on purpose, it's despicable.”

“It doesn't have to be perfect,” Constance murmurs. “Just has to be Porthos mumbling and muttering about the wine, and the blood, and 'him'. The voices in his head. Athos said something about that, right? That Porthos talked to himself. And I saw him do it, outside the bathroom. Just has to be enough for Porthos to seem off to us, just enough for him to incriminate himself.”

They all stay silent, contemplating how well someone would have to know Porthos to have that kind of knowledge. 

__

“Morning,” Athos says, blinking awake and finding himself nose to nose with a smiling Porthos. “You look better.”

“Afternoon, actually. It's nearly two. I'm feeling better. My head's stopped bothering me so much.”

“I didn't know your head was hurting,” Athos says, threading his hand into Porthos's curls. 

“I stopped noticing it, it was just kind of background, with the nausea and dizzy-sick feeling that kept closing in. All that panic.”

“You're feeling better, now?”

“Yeah. I slept well. I think talking to you helped me, so thank you.”

Athos smiles, thinking of Porthos's night-time confidences. 

“Hey,” Athos says. “Do you speak any Creole?”

Porthos's face falls a little, and Athos regrets asking. 

“No. I couldn't. No one else spoke it, and I was scared and little and I couldn't really talk much, anyway. She kept me close to her, and she spoke such a jumble. I was behind. My father scared me a lot, and he didn't want me to speak anything except English. I don't remember any of it. I've tried learning a bit, but it never feels right, you know?”

Athos nods, though he doesn't know. He accepts it, accepts that for Porthos it's too much, or not enough. Or something. Athos reaches out and cradles Porthos's cheek, smiling as Porthos smiles and his cheek fills Athos's hand. 

“You have dimples,” Athos says. Porthos bites his lip, trying to frown. “Don't stop smiling, I think they're beautiful.”

“Thanks.”

“I'm still going to keep this as platonic as possible,” Athos says, “But I'd like you to know I do want to kiss you, sometime.”

“I'm better now. You can kiss me now.”

“Not yet,” Athos says. 

Porthos pouts, which is as beautiful as the dimples. Athos presses their foreheads together, snorting to stop himself laughing. 

“I don't mind so much,” Porthos says. “This is nice, too.”

“It's hopeless, isn't it? This is just as intimate as kissing.”

“Completely and utterly hopeless,” Porthos agrees, face turning down, then going soft with amusement. 

Athos thinks it might be at his expense. He decides to put a stop to it. There's one very expedient way to do that, he realises. He cups Porthos's head, spreads his hand through his hair, and pulls him gently forwards into a kiss. The kiss lasts for long, drawn out minutes, Porthos pressing into it, hand clenching in the shirt Athos still has on from last night. Then the doorbell goes. 

“Damn it,” Porthos growls. “If that's the cops again, I'm going to nut 'em.”

“Nut... them?” Athos asks, carefully. 

“Headbutt 'em,” Porthos says, grinning wildly, bouncing off the bed and heading for the door. 

Athos hurries after him, hoping to restrain him from doing something stupid. Porthos throws him a grin, though, that promises laughter rather than violence. Porthos takes off his t-shirt, dropping it in a pile on the floor, and stands for a minute, tensing his muscles and growling. Athos watches, confused and turned on and feeling more confused for being turned on. A light sheen of sweat breaks out across Porthos's skin as the bell goes again. 

“Am I sweating?” Porthos asks. 

“Tiny bit,” Athos says, embarrassed when his voice comes out as a croak.

“They interrupted me,” Porthos says. “Gonna teach 'em a thing or two about interrupting a du Vallon.”

“I thought your mother made the name up,” Athos says, voice clearing a little.

“Got it from some French toffs, di'nt she? I bet they'd have skewered anyone interruptin' them.”

“Sometimes you remind me of William.”

“Eh?”

“You know, those Richmal Cromptom books about the English boy who always got into trouble...? No? Clearly not. Carry on with teaching people a lesson.”

Porthos grins at him, then the bell goes again, someone leaning on it. Porthos lowers his body, face falling into a glower, and he steps forwards, shoulders up, fists clenched, growling. Athos raises a hand in defence, but Porthos gives him another quick, fierce grin and menaces forward to fling open the door, snarling at the people on the other side. 

Athos has a moment to hope it's not a post man, then Aramis is yelping and d'Artagnan is yelling at Porthos and Constance is saying 'oh for heaven's sake he's playing', and Treville is marching in rolling his eyes. 

“Got 'em,” Porthos says, shifting over to Athos's side, smug and pleased with himself. “Got 'em.”

Sure enough, Aramis looks shaken and d'Artagnan looks like he's both ready to fight and run away.

“Were you scared?” Porthos says, to Aramis. 

“I was sh-shaking in my boots,” Aramis mocks, holding out a steady hand and making it tremble. 

“You're not wearin' boots,” Porthos says. “Just plimsolls.”

“They're Converses!” Aramis says indignantly. 

Porthos stars to laugh, a bellowing, good natured, happy laugh that makes Athos unable to keep from smiling. His smile widens a little when Porthos slips his hand into Athos's. 

“Well?” Athos asks Treville, deciding the rest of them are as bad as each other. “What is it now?”

“We have a few more questions for Porthos,” Treville says, looking apologetic. 

d'Artagnan and Aramis both sober up quickly at that, and Constance goes to the kitchen and puts on the kettle, looking through the cupboards until she finds honey. 

“I think we should all sit down,” Aramis says. “Sorry about this, Porthos. I was starting to like you.”

“Am I bein' arrested?” Porthos says, inching closer to Athos in alarm. “I've been in over night, but I've never been to jail properly. I was just sleeping off a rough one. Once our local copper caught me lifting, but I got off light.”

“Porthos, steady,” d'Artagnan says. “Take a breath. We're not arresting you, or accusing you, and you're certainly not going to jail. You do want to sit down for this, though. For one thing, it'll take a bit to talk through it all.”

“Oh,” Porthos says, in a small voice that Athos hates. 

__

Treville is surprised how cheerful Porthos is on their arrival. He slumps briefly when they start going over their case and their evidence and their theories. But then he perks up again and answers their questions with shrugs and jokes and jaunty variations on 'I don't know'. d'Artagnan has a go at getting him to go deeper, to really consider it, but Porthos just laughs and shrugs and kisses Athos until Athos pushes him gently away. 

“Go put some clothes on,” Athos says, after half an hour. 

“I've got clothes on,” Porthos says. “look, I put my t-shirt on and all.”

“Clothes that you can go out in. We're going to my flat so I can shower and change, and then I'm taking you to breakfast.”

“Oh. Right! Clothes!” Porthos says, beaming around at them all and bouncing into the bedroom, shutting the door with a snap. 

“And that was...?” Aramis says. 

“He's not doing it,” Athos says. “He's not telling you. He doesn't remember, and doesn't want to remember. I'm saying enough.”

“But he can tell us,” d'Artagnan says.

“Maybe, if you pushed it,” Athos says. “But I'm saying no. Enough. He's had enough, I've had enough. Do it another way. Your theory seems sound to me, I like it. It gets Porthos off the hook. It'll hurt him, if the accomplice is someone he knows, but he'll deal. You're not telling us everything, but I don't care. I'm done. We're done. That's it.”

Treville clears his throat. They haven't gone into details, haven't told them about Aramis's theory about past trauma. Athos probably has his own theories, because he didn't ask about any of the gaps they left, didn't even look curious. Neither did Porthos, but frankly Treville thinks Athos is right. Porthos has had enough, and is just blocking them all out, along with everything else. 

“We can do this the other way,” Treville says. “We've got a backup plan. I thought Porthos might want to do this, but I can see I thought wrong.”

“Thank you for thinking of it, but yes, you were wrong,” Athos says. 

“Very well. We'll leave you to your breakfast, in that case.”

“Yes,” Aramis says, with an easy shift of tone that Treville is rolling his eyes at before Aramis finishes the thought. “Have a nice breakfast.”

d'Artagnan gives a strangled laugh as Treville leads them all out into the hallway, and Aramis makes more and more blunt jokes until they hit the street, when d'Artagnan chases him out and up towards the cars. Treville lets them play. Their job this afternoon is not going to be fun.

__

“Are you alright?” Athos asks. 

Porthos looks up from his half finished bacon and eggs on toast, and shrugs. He is alright. He's got a bit of a headache, and he's tired, but he's alright. He's not feeling on the edge of frustrating, dizzying panic at the moment, and it's a relief. He's not feeling entirely well, either, though, and it's annoying him.

“Would you rather go somewhere else? I know places with much better food,” Athos says, hopeful. 

Porthos snorts. Athos tried to take him to two of these places with better food on their way here. When Porthos goes out for breakfast, though, he goes out for real breakfast, not croissants and rolls and snails, or whatever posh things there were in those places. When he goes out to breakfast he doesn't want to have to dress nice, either. Another thing Athos tried to get him to do this morning. 

“I'm good right here,” Porthos says, smiling at Athos's crestfallen face. “We have different breakfast needs, you and I.”

Athos gives Porthos's half finished breakfast a significant look. Porthos takes a big bite to make a point, but it goes down slow and uncomfortable. He sips his coffee, but that's even worse. He sets his cutlery and his mug aside and sighs. 

“I hate to ask again,” Athos starts, but Porthos holds up a hand to halt him, and Athos stops. 

“I'm not feelin' well,” Porthos says. “Dunno what's wrong, just feelin' sick to my stomach, and my head's going at it again.”

“Oh. Maybe you're getting ill. It's been a stressful week.”

“I can't get ill, I have work in three days.”

“Alright. Do you want to go home?”

“No. I want to have breakfast with you, and then walk down the towpath with you and kiss you and feed the ducks and be stupid and boring with you,” Porthos says. 

“But?”

“I really don't feel good,” Porthos says, forlornly. 

Athos gets up and draws Porthos up after him, wrapping an arm around his waist and escorting him like that out to the street. Porthos leans into him, for a moment, before they set off. 

“One good thing about that dreadful place,” Athos says. “At least we paid up front so we could escape easily.”

“I like 'Daisies'. They do me a decent fry up and don't rob me blind for it. Plus, that waitress fancies me and gives me free coffee. You've ruined it now, though. Layin' claim to me like this.”

Athos smirks, and Porthos tucks that away for later. Athos likes claiming him, Porthos can tell. 

“Oh, look,” Athos says, pausing by Waterstones. “I know that person.”

“Who?” Porthos asks, sifting through the crowd of face. 

“The author. The one doing a signing.”

Porthos re-focuses himself on the window display. 

“Ninon Larroque,” Porthos reads. “Huh. Cool. Athos, I feel sick.”

“Alright, alright. Come on, grumbly.”

Porthos grumbles wordlessly, and Athos smiles. Porthos pauses, squinching his eyes shut against his stomach. 

“Athos, I really feel sick. I think I might throw up,” he says, reaching out to steady himself on the wall. 

“Really? Right now? Here?” Athos asks. 

“Now and here,” Porthos confirms, his stomach roiling. 

He swallows hard, pressing a hand over his stomach, trying to keep his breakfast down. Athos settles a hand between his shoulder blades, which is nice but not very useful. 

“Nothing I can do,” Athos says, calmly. “I can't even see a bin anywhere. You're just going to have to throw up on the street.”

Porthos moans, leaning into the arm that's against the wall. Or the window, he realises. He's going to vomit on Waterstones. He presses his fingers against the glass, willing his stomach down. And then it's fading. He can still feel it, but he's not in danger of chucking his guts up in the street. He opens his eyes, cautious, but nothing happens. 

“Okay,” he says, and moves off again. 

“Okay? That's it?” Athos says, sounding irritable.

“Still feel ill,” Porthos says, “if that makes you happier.”

“Of course not, sorry.”

Athos wraps that nice arm around him again, and Porthos forgives him, leaning into the support a little. His head's setting up a nice counter rhythm to his feet. They walk in companionable silence, the drama of him almost puking making them feel connected. Or it makes Porthos feel very grateful for Athos, anyhow. 

“Look,” Athos says. “Playground.”

Porthos wonders why he pointed it out, but when he looks he sees why. It's not like the playground when he was younger, probably when Athos was younger too, though Porthos doesn't dare ask him how old he is yet. It's all twists of colourful pole and soft ground and loads of colour just everywhere. 

“Looks fun,” he says. 

“I used to spend a lot of time at the playground. With the estate kids,” Athos says. “Then they all went to... brick the chippy, and I was suddenly out, because I didn't go with them. Wouldn't talk to me after that. Did you ever brick a chippy?”

Porthos laughs. It sounds so strange in Athos's refined tones, the slang and the sentiment. He shakes his head, though. 

“Threw a brick into a bakery window, once, but never a chippy. Nicked some bread, too. God, we were hungry. That was when we'd run off from one home or other, me 'n Flea. We used to chuck 'em at our teachers' cars as they drove past, too. Just little ones,” Porthos assures at Athos's horrified look. “More pebbles than bricks.”

“You were a hooligan, weren't you?” Athos says. “I'd have loved that.”

“Boring childhood?”

“No, not especially. My brother and I were just well behaved, and I craved a little excitement, sometimes.”

“Your brother?”

“Thomas. He died. I'll tell you another time.”

“Fair enough,” Porthos says. “Take your time, I'll be here.”

Athos talks about his childhood a bit more, until they reach the flats. Porthos listens, but he's tired and feeling unwell, and he doesn't take much of it in. Athos takes him to Porthos's own flat, and he's glad of that. He just wants his bed. 

“Here, lie down,” Athos says, sitting him on the bed. “Do you want anything? A glass of water?”

“No. Lie down with me?”

“If this is a long con to get into my pants I'll be mad,” Athos says. 

“Would I do that?” Porthos says, grinning, because he totally would do it, and is going to keep it in mind for later in case Athos needs a little persuading. 

“You would, but I don't believe you are,” Athos says, stroking Porthos's forehead, pushing the annoying curls there away. 

“Oh, do that some more,” Porthos groans, then groans again, deeper and more purposeful. 

“Stop it.”

Porthos lies back, smiling, and to his delight Athos joins him. Porthos crawls up to his pillows and lies down properly, curling on his side. His stomach settles a little and his head calms, and he breathes a sigh of relief.

“How are you feeling?” Athos asks. “Are you sure you don't want anything, before I get comfy?”

“Nah, I'm alright. Feel a bit better lying down. I don't know what's wrong with me.”

“I think you've been feeling rough, but have been too het up to notice it before now.”

“Het up?” Porthos questions, unsure whether he's insulted by that or not. 

“I didn't want to say upset. I thought you mightn't like it,” Athos says, lying down face to face with Porthos. “Are you feeling too ill for me to kiss you? We were interrupted this morning.”

“Afternoon,” Porthos corrects. “I dunno why I said that, shutting up now. Not feeling too ill for kisses.”

Athos guides him with a hand on his neck, fingers curling against the base of his skull. Porthos leans into it. It turns out, though, that he's not really feeling up to kisses after all. His mouth goes slack against Athos's and his eyes slide closed. 

“Sorry,” he says, forcing his eyes open. 

“Shh, it's fine. What's wrong? Just feeling lousy?”

“A bit. I'm tired, too. Can you kiss me without me having to do anything?” Porthos mumbles. 

“Are you in pain?”

“No. Not really. Maybe. I don't know, I just feel like crud.”

“Let me know if you stop enjoying it,” Athos says. 

Porthos is about to ask what he's meant to be enjoying, but Athos is already massaging his scalp, mouth pressing gently to his forehead, his eyes, his mouth. Down his neck and resting there, mouthing, gentle. Porthos moans. 

“Nice,” he says.

“Alright,” Athos says. 

He kisses back up to Porthos's lips, and Porthos manages to reciprocate a bit now and then. Athos doesn't seem to mind, exploring Porthos's face and head and hair and neck and shoulder and back and chest with hands and mouth and clever fingers that rub and stroke away the tension. Porthos goes limp, and he's just thinking that he should really be going hard, if he were feeling respectable, when he dozes off between one kiss and the next.

__


	5. Chapter 5

Treville's surprised. He's surprised, because d'Artagnan and Aramis's plan is going off without a hitch. Constance and d'Artagnan tag team Émile Mauvoisin, d'Artagnan doing the sympathetic bit and Constance doing the calm competence. Treville waits on the sidelines, watching, enjoying the way they work together. Their styles compliment one another- Constance no nonsense and firm, d'Artagnan letting himself go all vague and pleasing. 

“I think I recognise the car,” Mauvoisin says eventually, looking up earnestly into d'Artagnan's open face. 

“Really? That's terrific,” d'Artagnan says. 

Treville stifles his amusement. 'Terrific'. Next the kid will come out with 'ripping' or 'topping'. 

“It's the colour. Reminds me of... I'm not sure, though.”

“Take a look at this picture. It's a traffic cam. We've cleaned it up as much as we can, it's pretty blurry but maybe the outline? You can kind of pick out a profile,” d'Artagnan says, enthusiastic.

“If not we're going to be pulling all the footage of surrounding cameras,” Constance says. “Staring at this one as an epicentre and working outwards. We're sure to catch him somewhere, sir. We'll get the man who did this to your son.”

Treville noticed Constance very firmly using 'man' with and had been a miffed by it, but then he'd noticed the way Constance and d'Artagnan keep passing information back and forth with a glance or gesture, using each other to gather extra information. He realises that d'Artagnan caught a reaction to his suggestion (which Treville had also noticed) that it could be a woman. 

“I think it's familiar. It's like the car, something nagging at the back of my mind. I'm so sorry about my mistake, about that poor man who I saw in the file. I really did think I'd seen my son with him, but it must have been a mistake.”

“No harm done, sir,” Constance says. 

“Oh, now that's it,” Mauvoisin says, clicking his fingers. “It's one of his friends. I'm sure, this time. I've seen him hanging around a lot. I've actually been doing a bit of surveillance myself, let me show you.”

Treville shifts so he can see the laptop screen. They're are the Mauvoisin home, and Treville is certain now that the man hasn't seen his son in a while. The room they were shown over had been badly disarranged to imitate someone living in it, but there was too much dust and things that would be used regularly untouched. Mauvoisin opens a video file, and presses play. 

There's a minute of empty drive, the same one they pulled up in twenty minutes ago, and then the car from the traffic cams comes into view. There's a clear picture of the driver, this time. And also a clear view of Jean Mauvoisin climbing into the passenger side. 

“Oh god,” Mauvoisin says. “It's really him, isn't it? That's the man who killed my boy. This is from over a week ago, I was trying to catch Jean heading out, see if I couldn't identify some of his friends and see about getting them busted for drugs possession. I never thought... I never thought..”

“That's enough,” Treville says. “The picture'll get us an identity, it's clear as a bell. Sir, did you notice the date stamp on the camera you installed? See these little numbers down here? Those tell us what date and what time this was recorded. This is the same date as your son was killed, and the time is eleven fifty. This is recording of some of your son's last moments.”

“I didn't... officer, I can't have... I over looked,” Mauvoisin stutters, breaking down sobbing. 

Treville has to give it to him, he's a good actor. Treville isn't falling for it, though. He closes the video and does a quick scan of the computer, locating the camera file and opening it. He pulls up the same footage they just saw, not clipped into a neat couple of frames this time, though. Where the other video stopped after Jean climbed in, this one shows Émile Mauvoisin climbing in the back a few moments later. Treville nods. 

“Émile de Mauvoisin, you are under arrest for the murder of your son, Jean de Mauvoisin. You do not have to say anything, but may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may given in evidence,” Treville says, with great satisfaction. 

He lets d'Artagnan cuff the man and Constance leads him out to the striped car. When the car door's slammed shut and the uniform has driven away, Treville holds up a hand for the others to pause. CSI is swarming over the house already, getting their eager fingers into everything. 

“Good team effort,” Treville says, watching Mauvoisin senior's house fall to CSI. “The fall of the house of Mauvoisin.”

“Thought you'd say for it Aramis, did you?” Constance says, tone grating. 

She's smiling, though, and she laughs. They head back to the station feeling easier. 

__

Athos answers his phone before the vibration can turn to sound. Porthos still shifts around hesitantly, probably at the sudden movement. Athos rubs his scalp gently. He seems to like that. Porthos hums questioning. 

“Hush, go to sleep. It's just Aramis,” Athos murmurs. 

Porthos presses into his hand, like a cat butting for more petting, and then dozes off again. Athos lifts the phone to his ear and sits back against the headboard. 

“Sorry, you woke Porthos,” Athos says, quietly but still accusatory. 

“I apologise. Is he like the princess and the pea? It can't have rung more than half a tone!”

“None, actually. It was more me diving for the thing before it made it's awful blaring noise.”

“You can change that, you know that, right? You can choose yourself a ringtone that doesn't offend your ears?”

“They all offend my ears. Now come on, I know it's nice that we've fallen so easily back into our pattern of banter, but there's a big sleeping cuddle monster here, and you're not offering an enticing alternative.”

“We've brought Mauvoisin senior in. He's refusing to talk, now, until he has a lawyer, but that's all getting held up because- never mind. We've got a clear image and we're doing a search right now. I thought I'd give you a head's up. It might not be good news, for Porthos.”

“Thank you. You've been very good to me on this.”

“I'd do it for him anyway,” Aramis says. “I like him. He's been a complete mess through all this, but, BUT! There's a but, don't bite my head off. But, even with that, he's managed to weasel into d'Artagnan's sponge of a heart, and charm Treville, and incur Constance's protective streak. He's also been incredibly useful and not made a fuss, even when we suspected him. Although, I don't know if he's told about how he freaked d'Artagnan a bit, right at the beginning?”

“No. Do tell.”

“Treville was insinuating, you've seen how he does. Asking questions that aren't quite far enough out of view of the point to miss it. The point, I mean. He asked Porthos about anatomy, and Porthos said, and I quote, since I have the recording I might as well quote, 'I read The Wind-up Bird Chronicles once, where it told you how to skin someone alive, is that any help?'”

Athos laughs, soft and fond. He looks at Porthos, spread out across the bed, drooling into a pillow, and feels a wad of content thicken under his ribs and fill him with warmth. 

“My friend,” Aramis says, equally soft, and even fond. “I haven't heard you laugh in a very long time.”

“You haven't seen me for a very long time.”

“I hadn't heard you laugh for a long time when you left,” Aramis says. He sounds sad about it. “It's one of the reasons I never chased you up. Everything about this place was making you miserable.”

“He makes me laugh,” Athos says. “I do it a lot, I find. He's a goof, and I like his humour. He slept on my sofa, then panicked and tried to leave when he woke up, but got tangled in the duvet and did a comical, cartoon pinwheeling thing to catch himself, only to fall face first into the carpet a second later, from a standstill.”

“I'm glad,” Aramis says. They hesitate. “That you laugh, I mean. Not that Porthos tripped over a sheet.”

Athos smiles.

“You make me smile, too,” Athos says. “I'm glad this got me back in touch with you. I'd forgotten that I actually used to enjoy your company.”

“That's a backhanded compliment. No, no. I'll take what I can get. We should do dinner sometimes, you can set me up with some pretty young thing.”

Athos's smile widens. He thinks of Ninon and wonders how long it would take her to dismantle Aramis's charm and make him eat it. Aramis would love it. 

“I can hear you going all Cheshire Cat on me,” Aramis says. “What monster have I created?”

“I started from my sleep with horror; a cold dew covered my forehead, my teeth chattered, and every limb became convulsed; when, by the dim and yellow light of the moon, as it forced its way through the window shutters, I beheld the wretch— the miserable monster whom I had created!” Athos quotes, running fingers through Porthos's hair, touching his skin, feeling him breathe.

“I suddenly feel for Treville. What a strange sensation. This must be empathy. Was that the original, by the way? Mary S herself?”

“Indeed. I have to go.”

“You have to go, or you want to curl up with your big snuggle slut?”

“The second. Aramis?”

“Mm?”

“I just thought I'd reiterate, now that we're... you know...”

“Talking again?” Aramis asks, a note of sarcasm creeping it (it's more than a note). 

“Yes. That. I thought I'd reiterate the old sentiment. If you need me, etc. each for each other.”

“Aw, now I feel bad about being sarcastic. That's... thank you. Though, there are more of us now. We should include at the very least Porthos, and probably d'Artagnan and Connie too. That would have the added bonus of getting up Treville's nose.”

“What, then? I like 'each for each other'.”

Porthos groans and grumbles himself to consciousness as Aramis is thinking. He cracks open an eye and glares at Athos. 

“One for all, then,” Athos says, softly, the words falling into place. 

“Eh?” Porthos says. 

“We're thinking of a catch-phrase,” Athos says. "One for all?"

“One for all,” Aramis says, testing it out.

“One for all what?” Porthos asks, grouchy at being woken. Athos ruffles his hair. “Athos, all for one what?”

“One for all, and all for one,” Athos says. 

“All for one, and one for all,” Aramis says, sounding satisfied as a cat.

“Now I can hear the cat in you,” Athos says. 

“Athos, what are you going on about?” Porthos says. “Seriously, all for one what? And how do you hear a cat in a person?”

“Shh, I'm talking to Aramis.”

“You and Aramis are weird. I was shush. I was asleep. Nice and shush and asleep. You woke me. Being weird. With Aramis.”

“Are you hearing this?” Athos asks. 

“Yes,” Aramis says, biting back laughter. “Oh dear. I'll let you go, sooth the monster. Please don't quote Frankenstein at me again. Literature is lost on me.”

“It isn't, you just get scared by horror. He was soon borne away by the waves and lost in darkness and distance,” Athos says, absently, distracted by the huffing and thrashing-irritably-about that Porthos is doing. 

“I should have kept my big mouth shut. Really, go soothe. I'll- oh wait. d'Artagnan? Do you have a results?... I've got Athos on the phone, I can ask...”

“That's sad,” Porthos says, stilling.

“What is?” 

“What you said. About being born and the darkness.”

“It's from Frankenstein.”

“I read that, at school. Or I was meant to, anyway. I think I read it.”

“Athos?” Aramis says. 

“Mm?” Athos says. 

“Could you ask Porthos if he knows a man most widely known by the alias Sam Grace?”

“Porthos, do you know a Sam Grace?” 

Porthos shakes his head, still sleepy and soft. Athos strokes his cheek. 

“I'm going to read out a list of names. Could you put me on speaker, or pass them on?”

“Mm,” Athos murmurs, bending to kiss Porthos, not really listening. Porthos turns into the kiss, lips brushing and then meeting Athos's. 

“Jake Raleigh, Tommy Cooper, John Cooper, Kenny Cooper. He liked Cooper. Hillary O'Tool, Charon Bleake, Charon Stone, Charon Belgard. He liked Charon, too.”

Athos pulls away from Porthos, feeling a chill settle in his bones. 

“Aramis, stop. Stop. It's- yes.”

“You know the name? Charon Belgard?”

“The first.”

“Charon. Oh. Porthos has talked to you about him.”

“Yes.”

“Ah, Athos, I'm sorry. He matches the photograph, and Mauvoisin senior has confirmed it. His lawyer showed up and told him to give us a name. I'm so sorry. Treville and Constance have gone to pick him up, d'Artagnan and I are just tying up loose ends.”

“I'll talk to him. Please, can you ask them to stay away?”

“I will. I'll ring you with more information. No, I'll email you when I know for sure what he's done.”

“Thank you.”

“What is it?” Porthos says, picking up on the tension. “You're upset. Is it me? Because I was grumpy?”

“No. I have news. From Aramis and d'Artagnan. Are you feeling up to hearing it? It's not good.”

“What is it?” Porthos says again, plaintive this time. “What else?”

“There were two men involved in the murder of Jean Mauvoisin. His father, and a man who seems to have hundreds of aliases.”

“Sam Grace. I don't know 'im.”

“At least four of the aliases are Charon. Charon Bleake, Charon Stone, Charon Belgard.”

“Belgard?” Porthos asks, sitting up with a jerk, pulling himself away from Athos. “Belgard? He used Belgard?”

“What's the significance?”

“It's my father's name. Oh. My father wrote me a letter, when I was twenty, telling me to keep away from him and that I wasn't getting any more money. I shrugged it off, thinking he meant... Charon conned him.”

Athos looks at Porthos helplessly. Porthos is turning in on himself, curling up tight, making himself small. He looks small. It's disconcerting. Athos reaches out to try and bridge the gap, but Porthos pulls in tighter, away from Athos's hand. 

“What do you mean?” Porthos says. “What do you mean? He was involved with killing Jean Mauvoisin? Why?”

“I don't know. I don't even know why Mauvoisin senior did it.”

“He killed his son. How poetic, that I should witness that.”

“Nothing poetic about it. Sad, maybe.”

“I saw 'im, didn't I? Charon? That's why I've been so off about this whole thing. I saw him, and he saw me. Cleaning up the wine. The wine, all that red wine spilling. I had to clean it up,” Porthos says, speaking slowly. “But that was a long time ago. He thought it was blood, so I had to clean it up quickly. He kept trying to get me out of it, screaming at me, hitting me.”

“Porthos,” Athos says, not knowing what to say. 

“And... and now... I had to clean up the wine. He told me. Showed it me. Now do I see? He turned it back into blood, like Christ.”

“Christ turned water to wine, not wine to blood.”

“Blood of Christ, save us. He had a Catholic fosterin', for a bit. All that stuff about transubstantiation.”

“Can I do anything?”

Porthos looks up, face haunted. Gone is the sleepy softness, the plump cheeks and dimples, the joy. Porthos looks haggard and drawn, and Athos wants to take it all away. 

“He did it on purpose, didn't he? Triggered all those memories for me, got them all mixed up with the blood and the wine and the Mauvoisins. Made me mad, until I made no sense, till I all but convicted myself. He made me clean it up, get it all over myself. He set me up. He set me up.”

“That's the theory,” Aramis says.

“No. Ain't no theory, Athos. That's Charon all over. He's got the brains. Always had the cleverness, the plans and the ideas and the games. Why Mauvoisin? Don't suppose it mattered to Charon. Is it my fault? Did I kill him after all?”

“No,” Athos says. 

He means to go on, but Porthos looks relieved, and when Athos doesn't add anything Porthos goes quiet, too. Athos sits back against the headboard, and Porthos creeps a little closer, bit by bit, until he's in Athos's arms. 

“I've got you,” Athos says. 

“Used to get such bad flashbacks, about Charon. He was my friend, and I loved him, and he did love me. He was good to me, too, when he could be. But fuck, he screwed me up. Once knocked me-self out with a length of rebar. Dropped a pulley on a scaffold on me head, because the foreman was yelling at someone and I was just... back there. On my hands and knees, trying to get the wine up. Sitting in the bathroom with the shower on when he wouldn't stop. Hiding from him in the living-room, behind the bookshelf.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No. I want to sleep. For it not to be happening. Please?” 

“Alright. Remember that poem you were trying to remember, that Samara read to you? I found it,” Athos says, scrolling through his phone until he finds the bookmarked page. “I'm not going to read it, I can't make it sound right, and I don't want to take her voice away from you. But you said you liked it, and I thought you might like this.

“But like love  
the archers  
are blind

Upon the green night,  
the piercing saetas  
leave traces of warm  
lily.

The keel of the moon  
breaks through purple clouds  
and their quivers  
fill with dew.

Ay, but like love  
the archers  
are blind!”

Porthos is asleep by the end, snoring from being twisted up against Athos, head at an awkward angle. Athos tries to get him more comfortable, but Porthos whimpers, so Athos stops and lets him be.

__

Treville isn't surprised, when they're done, to find Aramis hovering in the doorway to his office. Treville walks tiredly passed him and gestures him in. He sinks into a chair and watches Aramis do the same. 

“I told Athos I'd email him,” Aramis says. 

“Mauvoisin has admitted nothing. This... Charon, does Porthos call him?” Aramis nods. “Let's use Sam Grace, then, shall we? Sam Grace is saying a lot, seems to think we'll give him a deal if he tells us enough. Mauvoisin, Émile Mauvoisin, paid him to kill Jean Mauvoisin. They found each other at church, of all places. Sam Grace was repenting, Mauvoisin senior was converting for some weird kind of business deal. Sam Grace didn't care about that, so who knows?”

“Church,” Aramis says, faintly, hand going to his crucifix.

“Sorry,” Treville says, wincing. “I think the agreement was by way of an assassination. Sam Grace says he made the suggestion of the Fitzroys' house, and Émile Mauvoisin liked it. Anne Fitzroy turned a business deal bad on Mauvoisin, or something along those lines.”

“How did Grace know Porthos worked there?”

“Sam Grace knew, because Sam Grace set it up. The house came before Porthos, we hadn't thought of that. Grace staked out the Fitzroys, knew they needed a cat sitter. I think he planned to drop an ad in Porthos's bag or something, he was vague about it. But then, serendipity, one of the people who turned up at the Fitzroys, who Grace trailed, turned out to work with Porthos. A couple of dropped hints, and Porthos is installed as cat sitter.”

“Devious. Lucky?”

“Not sure. Maybe both. Mauvoisin, once he knew Porthos was ready to be set up, with Sam Grace's assurance he could do it well, took his son out there. To talk, Grace says. Porthos says there was no talking, and I'm inclined to his version of events. Grace said that Jean Mauvoisin was left money, rather a lot of money, by Mrs. Mauvoisin when she died. Money Émile Mauvoisin was relying on, as his business ventures had not met with success.”

“So it was for money.”

“Yes. The murder. The overkill? That was anger at the boy not helping him, I would guess. Sam Grace says he had nothing to do with the murder itself. He kept Porthos still and quiet, and dealt with that end of it. I don't think so, though. Porthos left huge gaps in what happened. He skipped from a broken neck to bloodless limbs being sliced open finger tip to shoulder, and foot being disconnected. I think Sam Grace did the in between bits. The bits Porthos can't remember, or can't say out loud.”

“Poor bugger.”

“I hope you mean Porthos.”

“Of course!” Aramis exclaims, stricken. Treville smiles to reassure him, and Aramis scowls, waving him to get on with it. 

“That's most of what I got out of him. I'm leaving them both in cells overnight. We have enough to hold them, and no judge is getting up to set bail for a child killer this time of night. Time to go home.”

“Did Grace say anything about... about Porthos's PTSD?”

“No. Just that he'd known how to make it stick to Porthos.”

Aramis sighs and rubs his face, and they exchange a long look. Treville waits for Aramis to ask, deciding to let Aramis decide if Athos needs to know. Who will in turn decide if Porthos needs to know. 

“Did he say anything?” Aramis says. “Anything, you know.”

“He said that it all went wrong when Porthos left, and then he talked about sharing a flat with Porthos, about coming home and finding Porthos there and his heart leaping, about how Porthos was singing, about how they danced, laughing, swapping the tune back and forth. And then Sam Grace said that Porthos left, and that if he ever got out he'd go kill Porthos du Vallon, for sending him to hell.”

“I'll leave that bit out,” Aramis says. 

“This case is a shit-shower, start to finish,” Treville says, wearily. “Let's get it closed up tight tomorrow, and leave it to gather dust until the trial comes around.”

__

“I loved him. And he loved me. I remember the dancing thing, the way he held me, his body against mine. I remember his breath in my hair and his whispered promises. I remember him holding my hand on the first day we had to go to school after Mum died. I remember him being able to understand me when others couldn't. I remember him. 

“I remember the blood reflected in his eyes, the frenzy there, the terror. I remember him pressing my hands to the carpet and showing me how the wine had turned to blood, how his life had turned to blood, how everything inside him was just blood. No thought, no feeling, just blood beating round a dead body. Like the dead body there. I remember his empty eyes boring into mine, and I remember knowing my friend, my lover, my love, had died a long time ago. 

“He killed himself. Death was the only way out, sometimes, down there in the dark. We threw a brick through a bakery window because we were cold. We were cold because we were away from home. We were away from home because Charon was away from home. Charon was away from home because they beat him. No one ever beat me. He was away from home because they starved him. We stole him bread. We hung together like fly paper, sticky, but not enough and too brown-paper-poor for real love. Fell, twisting in the slow summer air, unstuck.

“He beat me. He called me names. He made me crawl and cower and fear the world. He made me jump at loud noises and go nuts about wine. I forgave him, but I wouldn't live it forever. I refused. I refuse. I will not cower. Samara showed me that. We stand up, and we announce: I am from Morocco, or My blood is Haitian. Still we rise, and still we rise. I found pride in my Englishness, too. In 'bricking the chippy' and nutting the twats on a Friday night at the bar. Found pride in building and in tea breaks and in hard hats and aching muscles and a good days' work. Got my a-levels and found my pride there, too. 

“He never found that. There's no excusing him, I don't want to try, but I did love him. I won't be ashamed of that, and I won't bury it now he's done this thing. This dead thing. No living person should be able to perform that atrocity, especially for no reason beyond anger and the frenzy of the moment. Not animal, that needless killing and tearing for fun instead of food, but human. Innately human. My humanity. 

“I'll manage. I'll manage. I always manage."

__

Athos followed Porthos towards the station. Porthos hasn't been back for months. Not since they came here so Constance could take them to visit Charon. Porthos had gone just that once. He stayed for five minutes, came out white as a sheet and proclaiming that Charon was dead, dead and buried long ago. They hadn't been back to the prison, of the police station. 

"D'you think they'll have cake here?" Porthos asks, tucking his hand into Athos's as he presses the button for the lift.

"Knowing this place? Probably," Athos says. "But it might be made by Aramis, which means-"

"Morgue cake," Porthos says, sadly. Then he breaks out into a smile. 

The office is empty, the white board clear. Athos wanders about while Porthos knocks on Treville's office. Treville comes out and leans on a desk, listening to Porthos ramble about cake. Treville catches Athos's eye and grimaces. 

"Porthos," Athos says. 

"What? Oh. Right. Where's the birthday boy? We came to take him out. And Connie, and you and Aramis," Porthos says. "Athos's treat."

"I did not know the last bit," Athos says, though he'd guessed it from Porthos's smirks. 

"It'll still be his treat," Porthos says. "I have his credit card for if he makes a fuss."

Athos checks his wallet, and sighs. Porthos has taken to pick-pocketing him, recently, because Athos had questioned something in a film, and Porthos had decided to prove whatever it was possible. Athos can't even remember what was being proved.

"There's a vehicle accident, five car pile up, and someone jumped off a very tall building, and... I actually don't know where d'Artagnan is, he was talking too fast and took the call himself, so I have to wait for the report on that one. I think Aramis is here, hiding away downstairs, being creepy," Treville says, ignoring the unfolding drama of the wallet. 

d'Artagnan comes bouncing in, Constance on his heels, and beams when he spots them, running to his desk and coming back with a chocolate brownie for Porthos. 

"I saved it for you," d'Artagnan says proudly. 

"Fan'k 'ou," Porthos says, around a mouthful. "Mm."

"Happy birthday," Athos says, for both of them. 

Porthos nods. Treville tries to get details of d'Artagnan's call, and Constance tries to tell Treville about the suicide. Aramis comes up to join in the chaos, bringing with him the wiff of corpses and a slew of film references. Porthos sidles up to Athos and leans into him. 

"Bit much?" Athos murmurs. 

"Mm," Porthos says. "Jus' stay here to finish this, eh?"

Athos smiles, ruffling Porthos's hair. He settles an arm over Porthos's shoulders, and waits for calm to fall. Treville brings it about by stalking to his office. d'Artagnan and Constance exchange a look, then seem to decide that the retreat means they don't have to report. They turn to Athos and Porthos as one. 

"Dinner," Porthos says, when they both take a step closer. "On Athos."

Athos nods. Constance glances at her office, then shrugs and nods. d'Artagnan makes some noise about a report, then says 'fuck it, yes, please!'. Aramis agrees with a comment about free food. Treville stays to finish up the day, but lets the rest of them go early. 

Porthos retreats to the car, but by the time they reach the restaurant he's happy again, easy in his interactions with the others. Athos makes a mental note. He doesn't really need to- Porthos is good at monitoring himself and noticing problems. He usually notices before Athos if he's going to have a bad week. Not always, but usually. He's dragged Athos to his therapist a few times, and then left him there. He looked smug when Athos admitted it actually helped, and got himself a therapist of his own. 

They sing 'happy birthday', and Porthos has arranged a cake with candles, and Aramis gives d'Artagnan a pair of fluffy pink handcuffs and a book, and Porthos gives d'Artagnan a rubber dinosaur which confuses Athos but d'Artagnan loves. He promises to keep it on his desk. Porthos also gives d'Artagnan a set of nice coloured pencils, which makes Aramis demand d'Artagnan show off his skill with them. 

d'Artagnan draws Aramis with his clothes disarrayed, looking grumpy, with a speech bubble that says 'where's my hat'. Aramis grudgingly admits d'Artagnan is actually quite good. Athos carefully folds up the picture, pocketing it for safe keeping. d'Artagnan invites them back to the house, but seems relieved when they refuse. Constance has flushed cheeks when they leave, which makes Porthos snigger dirtily and speculate about d'Artagnan gladness at their refusal. 

"Are you alright?" Athos asks, later, when they're in bed at Athos's house. 

"I'm okay. Tomorrow I've got off, which is good. Glad we planned it like that," Porthos says, yawning, curling up on his side, face against Athos's hip where Athos is sat up reading. 

"How was the station?"

"I'd quite like not to go back there for a while. Having a purpose, a reason, and a positive one at that, made it... easier. Felt a bit weird, though."

"We don't have to ever go back."

"You don't like it, either," Porthos says, softly, realising it. "Do you?"

"No. I was so miserable there."

"I'm sorry."

"I wanted to die."

Porthos stiffens, and Athos regrets admitting it, but then Porthos forces himself to relax, and Athos realises that Porthos is quite capable of dealing with that. Probably more capable than Athos is. 

"You startled me," Porthos murmurs. "It's alright, though. You didn't die. If you ever want to again, you can tell me. I won't make a fuss over it."

"Thank you. I was supposed to be making sure you're okay, not having you look out for me."

"We can do both. No more cop shop, for a bit at least, possibly forever. I liked the brownie, though. Constance made 'em. Do you reckon I could con her into making me more?"

"She's sharp, I doubt even you could. If anyone has the skill-set needed, though. And she does have a soft spot for you, she might do it just to indulge you."

"Maybe. We'll see."

"Get some rest."

"Will you be up long?" Porthos asks, yawning again. 

"No. Not long."

"Good. You don't have tomorrow off. Bad planning, that."

"Indeed."

Porthos chuckles, then subsides, quieting and relaxing properly. Athos waits for the snoring to start, then strokes Porthos's hair, pressing a kiss to his forehead. 

"I love you, I'm silly with it," Athos murmurs, allowing himself tenderness now Porthos is asleep. 

Porthos's eyes crack open and the snoring stops, and Porthos gives a wicked grin, sitting up and enveloping Athos in a hug, growling. 

"I knew it," Porthos says, victorious and smug. "Knew you were sneakingly lovely. I love you somethin' silly, too, you big daft tosser."

"I hate you," Athos says. 

"I know. I love you too. I adore you. I am very fond of you. I think you're amazing. I-"

"Shut up. God, shut up," Athos says. 

"I am silly for you. You complete me, you're my angel, you're captivating."

"Fine. I love you. Will you please stop?"

"I s'pose so, seein' as I love you so much, munchkin."

"God. Not munchkin. Anything but munchkin."

"My little grindylow. My hobgoblin."

"I asked for those."

"Yep."

"Alright, then, batty boo. I love you, my binky."

Porthos roars with laughter, rolling Athos into a more thorough snuggle, under the blankets. Athos's book hits the floor. Athos reaches out to turn off the light, laughing at Porthos's antics. 

"I really do love you," Athos admits, to the dark.

"I know that, button," Porthos says. 

"I... actually don't mind button."

"I know. Or pet. I've been doing a survey."

"Go to sleep, you nutter," Athos says, laughing, burying his face in Porthos's shoulder. 

Porthos, still one to follow such orders, goes off without any more trouble. Athos follows him, smiling even in his sleep.


End file.
